End of the Innocence
by bjxmas
Summary: Every hunter has his first hunt. Dean only wanted to erase the memory of the Shtriga and prove to Dad he was a man. Problem was he was still a boy with a tender heart. To do the job Dean learns to build his walls. Wee!chesters and Grown-up reflections.
1. First Kill

This was my first published story. It is in the zine A' Hunting We Will Go #1 published in May 2007. It was written over two years ago so hopefully I've progressed as a writer since then. Being a frustrated perfectionist, I'll be tweaking it a little as I post each chapter. There are probably things I'd change if I had the time to completely revamp it, but I put everything I had into it when I wrote it and I think the story holds up.

It is a total of six chapters, and approximately 25,000 words. The first five chapters are Wee!chesters while the final and longest chapter is set during Season One as Sam gains insight into his brother and what his life was like as a child.

Warnings for language and angst.

I hope you enjoy, B.J.

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_This story is dedicated to Pandora Jazz and irismay42 who first read it when the zine came out and offered such encouraging words. Pandora Jazz further supported my writing endeavors by buying the zine, and irismay42 and I shared the great joy of having our first zine stories published in the same volume! Thanks, guys… for everything. _

End of the Innocence

Chapter One - First Kill

"All right, Dean, this is it. This one's all yours." John gripped his son on the shoulder as anxious eyes gazed up into his own.

"I'm ready, Dad, no worries," Dean replied, confidence evident in his smooth and even tone.

"Just be careful, don't get cocky. They don't look that dangerous, but they are. Don't get too close. Remember the vital spots, head or heart. Make it clean. I'll be right behind you."

"Got it, Dad."

Dean took off through the brush, tracking the creature with a trained eye. The adrenaline started to course through his body as anticipation for his first kill brought him to the edge. All his training ultimately leading up to this moment when he could at last prove to his dad he was worthy.

No time now for doubt or uncertainty. Dad trusted in his abilities and he had waited his entire life to show he deserved that faith. He was Dad's soldier going into his first battle alone. This would prove once and for all he was a man, a soldier, a warrior ready to engage evil in Dad's mighty war.

The creature was swift and cunning, dodging through the thick underbrush, sensing its enemy in hot pursuit. Its legs twice as long as Dean's, making him exert double the effort in a vain attempt to keep up. His breathing was beginning to labor as the high elevation affected his lungs.

_Slow and steady, son. Just keep on it and it will slow down eventually. Just don't lose it._ John's guiding voice echoed in his head as he remembered years of insight culled at the side of his skilled hunter dad.

_Man, if I could just remember half of what Dad's taught me over the years. All right, settle down, just relax and do your job. You know what to do, you're ready._

His feet started to slip on the wet mossy slick of the forest floor. _Slow it down, take it easy. _He shifted his trail to the side, away from the mossy sponge beneath his feet, his boots again finding solid ground, gripping the clay of the mountainside, picking up speed now, a steady rhythm to his breathing once more as he became more acclimated to the altitude. Quick and sure, past the boulders and down into the raging stream. _Good thing that thunderstorm from last night ended before we took off on this hunt. Man, I'd hate being out here in that maelstrom._

His feet slipped slightly on the slick river rocks lining the stream, but his agility maintained his balance as he skimmed across the stream and onto the bank on the other side. The tracks still clear and barely ten minutes ahead of him, he could taste the kill, the thrill of victory awaiting him.

His mind blanked out the sound of his dad's steady footsteps behind him, focusing all attention on his prey. Dad was merely a witness to this hunt; this was _his_ hunt, _his_ conquest, _his_ validation. He'd been on Dad's case for months to let him take on his first prey, to let him _prove _himself. _Don't blow it now, don't disappoint him._

"_I'm ready Dad; let me prove it to you. Please Dad. It's time." _

"_All right, Dean, but I'm going to be right there backing you up. This will be your hunt. Make me proud."_

Nothing like a little Winchester pressure to make you feel right at home. Thing was, Dean was now used to pressure; he thrived on it, without it he felt lost, unfocused, _free_. Now _that_ was a scary proposition. Living in the shadow of all the uncertainty of this world he sought out whatever structure he could grasp hold of in his life. He would never have the normal routine of regular kids: a real home, a steady school, household chores and hanging out at the mall, and he sure as hell didn't want that white bread existence. Still, he sought out some stability to hold firm to: _Dad and Sammy and me_. Taking care of Sammy and training with Dad. _Order and orders._

Free time to squander away in a frivolous manner was certainly something he had never been accustomed to. Since the fire and his mom's death at the hands of evil he'd experienced little down time. Between taking care of Sammy, which turned out to be a full time job, and training to be that perfect soldier, there wasn't a lot of free time for personal pursuits, like school and friends, or figuring out what he wanted out of life.

Dean took it all in stride, 'cause if he worked really hard at his training, he could make Dad smile and that made it seem all right. Heck, that made it perfect. The fact was all Dean had in life was his dad and little brother Sammy, and he had convinced himself a long time ago that was enough; that they were all he really needed, and if he happened to be fortunate enough to have both of them proud of him, for different reasons, of course, but still, _proud_ just the same, then he could exist in this world for another day. He _might_ actually thrive.

He stopped and examined the ground. Something was wrong here and he wasn't quite sure what. The creature had changed course, it was now heading back up the mountain. _What the hell?_

_Think, Winchester. It takes more effort to go uphill. It thinks it's stronger than you, it thinks it can outlast you. The hell it will!_

His determination was now the fuel for this hunt; fire burning in his gut for this kill, stoked by his need to impress his dad, to fulfill his destiny and join the ranks of the hunters, to finally claim his rightful place. His weary legs turned upward on the mountain, maintaining a long stride back into the tree line, weaving between the trees like a dog running an agility course. His eyes trained on the signs left by this creature as it raced for freedom, not yet knowing it was doomed. A Winchester was on its trail and the Winchesters were fierce hunters, deadly and unstoppable. _Relentless._

The storm clouds were once more threatening the late afternoon sky. The sun dipped behind one of the dark ominous clouds casting the forest in a surreal hazy fog. The visibility was less than fifty feet now and diminishing. _Why couldn't the weather hold? _ A light rain started to fall, almost a mist, gently dampening the forest and bringing the cold of winter early into fall. The mist on his face ran into his eyes, making the Vaseline scene take on an even softer focus, bringing a new chill as it mixed with the sweat of his exertion, then evaporated off into the cool breeze. The frigid air was wisping down into his bones now, making him shiver beneath layers of warm clothing that failed to stop the freezing cold that had moved in and taken hold.

Dean was trying to gain some time on this creature, desperately wanting to cut short this hunt before the weather turned impossible. The mountain could be treacherous enough under cover of darkness, which would be upon them in a few short hours; with the rain and the unexpected cold it could turn deadly. _Never underestimate the prey and never depend on the weather._ _Both can turn on you in seconds flat._ _Always be prepared._

His next step slipped off of the rain slicked moss and he went down hard on his left knee. His hand reached out to brace his fall, but only succeeded in scraping along the rough rocks and twisting to a precarious position. He let out a startling yelp as the pain shooting up his arm again reminded him to be _slow and steady_. _Damn, why did I forget that lesson so soon?_ He touched his injured hand and wrist and a sharp, cutting pain greeted him and he cursed his haste.

_Dude, I think you really did it now, it feels broken. It can't be broke, can it? Man, Dad will pull you off this hunt if he thinks you're injured so you better just suck it up and keep moving. You've waited too long for this; don't blow it now, Winchester._

Dad's footsteps were closer, more pronounced, one more reminder to focus on this hunt and complete the mission. His eyes squinted in the hazy mist, searching out the signs, taking in the lay of the land and mapping out his path up the mountain; determined to gain speed and increase the distance between himself and his dad. Damn, but this creature has the endurance of a bull charging through the forest, not showing any sign of letting up.

_Remember that, Winchester, fear can make you stronger, as long as you don't let it control you, make you hesitate. Use it, use the adrenaline, use the panic. Control it, wield it like a weapon._

The throbbing of his wrist was now the only thought he could process, twisting to the front of his consciousness, demanding full attention. _Goddamn it! _ He knew he had screwed up royally and was seriously hurt, but he hoped he could file it away in the back of his mind and just keep soldiering onward. _No pain, no gain. _He had waited almost a year for this opportunity and he was not going to let a stupid mistake and a broken wrist stop him. Regardless, he was going to finish this hunt. He had no other option, _Dad expected it_.

He heard gasping and realized he was forgetting to breathe. In his haste to conquer this creature, he was forgetting the fundamentals. _Slow it down, dude._ He stopped and pulled the water bottle from his backpack and took several long gulps as he treasured this time to rest his weary legs for just a moment. His thirst now sated, he hurriedly stowed the bottle and took off again up the mountainside, dodging the rocks and boulders and scampering up the narrow trail.

A wayward branch jumped out at him, scraping across his face as he breezed past a hollowed out shell of a tree. The brittle branch broke as it came into contact with his face, but not before creating a deep gash across his cheek. _Damn it. Better keep Dad behind you or he might be tempted to halt this hunt. Might just figure to take it out himself and let his "little boy" go home to take care of his "owies". Like hell!_

He buried whatever pains he felt along with his humiliation at being such a fucking wuss. He was a Winchester, for God's sake. Pain didn't stop them. Pain only fueled his determination, steeled his resolve, drove his body onward with a conviction that would shock the most formidable foe. His mind again focusing only on the prey and the battle before him. Suddenly a flock of birds flushed out of the brush up ahead on his right, signaling his prey was closer than he thought.

He kept up his pace, watching closely the slippery moss as he went, feet steady and sure now, no room for error. He rounded the last boulder and before him in the clearing the creature stood, resting after its run for life. It was frozen in time, ears alert listening for the sounds of impending doom, legs poised, ready to run at the first hint of danger.

He raised up his rifle, laid steady across his forearm, the pain of his injuries making his left wrist and hand pretty useless at this point. He'd just have to steady it against his forearm and hope he could get off his shot. _Nothing like making it more difficult for yourself, Winchester. _He held his breath as he centered his prey in the sight, his finger poised on the trigger._ Breathe. Don't rush the shot. Squeeze the trigger. Make it count._

The creature turned its head and gazed into his eyes just as he pulled back the trigger. His shot rang deadly towards it and it bucked and squalled as the bullet ripped open its chest. It staggered and fell in a heap, but as he raced forward, he could see it still gasping, struggling, trying to rise up, yet falling back again to the ground. His aim was just slightly off target, deadly, but not instantly lethal. The heart not pierced but still beating, desperately trying to live, not yet knowing it would soon die.

Dean stopped and stared at the frightful plight of this creature, mesmerized and appalled at the lengths it was exerting to live. He raised up his weapon to fire again, to put it out of its misery and he hesitated.

"Dean, finish it," Dad commanded, appearing behind him.

"What?"

"Why are you waiting? Finish it."

Dean seemed lost in the moment, trapped in the realization that this life, however insignificant it had seemed before, was frantically trying to live, yet surely fading away and _he _was the cause of it. Suddenly the truth hit him hard, almost as devastating as the moment he realized his mom was dead, never to return, and he felt the convergence of it all: the pain and utter panic of this creature, the frailty of life, the cruelty of death, and he gasped from the weight of it.

Her brown eyes so large and expressive, so full of life, yet fading, peering into his soul, silently asking, _Why?_ He was familiar with death, had been all his life, but _never_ like this, never so up close and personal, never knowing that _he_ was the bringer. He had trained his entire life for this moment and now it was upon him and he shuddered. Why was this all so unexpected and disturbing? _I know what death is!_

She was almost to her feet again, then stumbling, crashing back down on her legs each time she tried to rise. Her legs now bloody and torn, ripped apart on the jagged rocks and _still _she fought to live. Dean now saw a fragile being, not the dangerous prey he had set out to vanquish.

"Dean, what's wrong with you?" Dad sounded mad, but also concerned…baffled… unable to find a reason for his son's hesitation. "Watch out for the hooves, she's still dangerous. _End it_."

And then Dean heard the crack, the unmistakably chilling sound of her right front leg shattering against the rocks, the bone actually sticking out as she tried to regain her balance, as she tried to limp away to safety. Her heroic efforts in vain, because there was no escape. Death was waiting and her only hope was for it to claim her quickly, mercifully, before she was forced to endure more suffering.

Dean swallowed hard as he took on all her pain, actually feeling her frantic, panicked heartbeats beating in his own chest, her confusion and terror overwhelming his thoughts. The horror of the scene unfolding before him made him literally gasp before his own determination kicked in and he raised up his gun and again took steady aim, praying this shot would find the vital organ and end the misery he had caused.

Knowing there was no retreat from the inevitable he could only hope to end this, so he continued on the expected course of action, steadying the rifle against his aching forearm. He was the killer of this magnificent creature and the only path he could take now would be to end her suffering. One more shot rang out and the creature stilled, at last released from the torment he had place her in.

He dropped his rifle down to his side and steadied the barrel against his jeans, his hand shaking…his entire body subtly spasming, unable to still his tremors. He turned away from his dad's watchful eyes, hoping he could control the tears welling in his eyes, but failing miserably as the rain washed them down his face. _Damn it._

"Dean? You all right?"

"Yeah, Dad. No worries." _Slow and steady, calm it down…breathe…think, Winchester…no, __stop__ thinking._

"Why did you wait?"

Only the slightest hesitation before he responded, "Just wanted to make sure it counted. Sorry I missed with the first shot. I'll practice more when we get back. It won't happen again, sir." Cold, detached voice, _where did that come from?_

"It happens. Dean, you just need to work on a quicker follow-up shot. You did good, son. Let's get her carved up."

"_What?"_

"No sense letting this meat go to waste. Trust me, you're gonna love the taste of venison."

It wasn't the blood and guts or hollowed out carcass that hung on in Dean's mind that night as he set the table for dinner. It was those deep brown expressive eyes that haunted him. It was seeing eyes so full of life, dim and then slowly extinguish, like a candle flickering in the breeze, and then vanishing, leaving a dark empty void where life had once thrived. It was knowing he was the cold dark wind that whipped through the forest and ended a life. _It was feeling it…feeling the life sucked out of those eyes as the light went out._

This was what he'd trained his entire life for, his purpose, his mission. This was just a taste of what was to come and he had better steel himself to that cold hard fact. He needed to find a way to get past this and harden his heart 'cause he sure as hell couldn't stand to feel this way every time he killed something. He knew he couldn't take this over and over again. That in itself was enough to break him.

He was a hunter, like his father before him, and he had better get used to the end result. _I mean,_ _what the hell did you think would come from all this?_ _You just need to make sure the first shot does it from now on. It's got to be easier if they just fall and die. Doesn't it?_

"Dean, mash the potatoes, will ya? The meat's almost done."

"Sure, Dad."

"Wow, Dean, tell me about the hunt. I knew you'd do it."

Sammy looked at him with such wonder, such innocence.

_You really don't understand, do ya, Sammy? Why should you? I mean, I didn't understand. I never expected…_

"Boys, you are in for a real treat. This is gonna be some of the tastiest meat you've ever had."

Dean had struggled to help his dad with the carving of the carcass in the forest while hiding his injured wrist. The only thing that saved him was the fact he was so inexperienced and Dad was in a hurry to finish the job and get them off the mountain before the weather turned nasty again. The older Winchester methodically sliced up the prime sections of meat and handed the pieces to his son who managed to just lift and haul the bundles with his right hand. Amazingly, he never noticed his son was injured. John had a great capacity to see what he wanted to see sometimes, particularly concerning his sons.

Mashing the potatoes took some maneuvering, but Dean was pretty adept with just one hand. He was grateful that at least his primary appendage still functioned, even though he was somewhat ambidextrous, a handy quality for a hunter. He simply cradled the bowl against his chest and mashed one-handed. The end result was hardly the smooth, delicious mashed potatoes he remembered his mom delivering to the dinner table, but none of their food ever resembled the home cooking of Mom, and to be honest, he liked it that way.

He treasured the memories of Mom's down home cooking and fresh baked treats and thought they were best left there in his memory, filed away with vague glimpses of other happy times; locked away only to be brought out when desperation demanded some semblance of a happy family life, some remnant to hold onto when times seemed too crazy to endure.

Food now was just sustenance, nutrients to fuel the body. It was rare for the Winchesters to even sit down together for a meal, more often than not grabbing something on the run, or Dean feeding Sammy while Dad was God knows where, doing God knows what. Shared meals were no longer the happy family gatherings dinnertime once was. There was always something, rather _someone, _missing from the table.

"Okay, boys, dig in." John presented a platter of delectable venison fillets, expertly broiled to perfection like only a true chef would prepare. The one thing Dad knew how to prepare was steak. _A man's food, a warrior's fuel._

On more than one occasion John had been tempted to hunt down a few PETA protesters. "_Who the hell are they to tell me to watch out for the innocent little animals? They're cows for Christ's sake! They should be concerned with the real evil that's out there…like the creatures that eat people!"_

Dean just sat and looked at his steak, the smell that normally would have been enticing only causing his stomach to rumble and not in a good way. He stared at his knife, wondering how in the world he was even going to cut up the darn thing without Dad noticing the plain fact screaming out in front of him, "_Hello, did you happen to notice your son is injured? Ahem, Father of the Year, anyone home?"_

Just then the rumbling of his stomach took all precedence and he raced from the table straight to the bathroom, finding its porcelain receptacle just in time. He heaved out the contents of his lunch and sat gasping on the floor. He reached over and flushed away the disgusting residue and sat back down, his eyes watering from the aftereffects and _something else…?_

No more thoughts about this, it was settled. He was a hunter. Hunters kill. End of story. _Right?_

Strong hands massaged circles down his back, gently kneading his shoulders; tender words uttered in a raspy, low voice broke through the stillness.

"Dean, you all right, dude?"

"Yeah, Dad, must be the flu or somethin'. Sorry, I don't think I'm up to eating tonight."

"The flu, huh?"

"Yeah, I kinda felt it back on the mountain, you know. Just the beginning, I think it's taking hold now."

John placed his huge hand on his son's forehead, gently brushing back his short blond hair that was plastered with sweat against his brow.

"No fever."

He then placed the back of his hand against Dean's cheek, just a gentle, soothing touch, like he knew Mary used to give her son when he was still a child and coming down with the chicken pox or measles, or _just because_. John checked the butterfly bandages closing the wound on his cheek; he had done his best to try and minimize any scarring. His son was going to be a real looker, scars or not, but even John wanted to preserve as much of his soft, flawless skin as possible.

Dean gazed into his dad's concerned eyes. "No? Just a queasy stomach I guess. Maybe it was something I ate."

"Well, then, maybe you should head to bed. Get some rest; it's been a long day. How about I make you some chicken broth? How's that sound?"

"Great, Dad. Sorry about the meal. I'll do the dishes in the morning, all right?"

"Don't worry about it, Dean. Just go to bed. I'll bring you some broth as soon as it's ready."

John gently brushed his fingers through the hair on the back of Dean's head, his hand resting against his son's neck for just a moment. Dean sighed; it felt good just to have that fleeting contact, just a moment to feel his dad's love. He _knew _his dad loved him; it was just nice to _feel_ it sometimes. John helped him to his feet and he slowly walked to his bed.

He stripped out of his jeans, kicking them to the floor and crawled into bed wearing only his underwear and t-shirt. His left knee throbbed as he knelt on the mattress and for the first time he focused attention on that. It was swollen and turning an interesting array of colors: red, yellow, purple and the obligatory black. Just another reminder of his first kill, a minor injury to momentarily divert his mind from his true pain: the nagging doubt that he was somehow lacking, somehow deficient, _unworthy_.

The memory of that Shtriga attack again so fresh in his consciousness: his hesitation, his paralyzing fear, his dad's overwhelming disappointment in him. The long, desperate silences where Dad couldn't even bear to look at him and when he did…when he _finally_ did… Dean couldn't bear to see the look he had for his son, how he looked at him differently. They had never spoken about it, not once, but it was always in the room, a heavy burden on Dean's shoulders, so for almost a year now he had anxiously awaited his chance to erase that night and make Dad proud again. _And this is the end result?_

The queasiness of his stomach had settled and he knew he was hardly suffering from the flu. Still, a good night's rest couldn't hurt and he didn't want to risk giving away his pathetic state of mind. _Everything will look better in the morning. It'll make sense then, you're just tired and not thinking clearly. A good night's rest will fix everything._

All his efforts to impress Dad had finally succeeded and he had completed his mission, no sense botching the follow-up. He just needed to get his mind straight and reconcile himself to the truth; the harsh, unyielding truth of what was expected and somehow he knew he would find a way to do his duty. He always did. He had buried enough pain previously, he was sure there had to be a corner somewhere left to bury one more hurt, one more regret, one more bitter memory.

He sunk into his bed and pulled the covers up all around him, tightly wrapped around him like a cocoon, trying to find a safe place where he could escape for just a while. He stared at the ceiling trying to make his mind focus on something else, _anything else;_ but nothing else seemed more real than those deep brown eyes, fixed in his memory, staring back at him, asking, _Why?_

TBC

_Reviews and comments would be lovely if you are so inclined. Thanks again, B.J._


	2. Bedtime Stories and Real Life

This story was written in December 2006, almost a year before A Very Supernatural Christmas aired. Sam's knowledge of the family business is a little different since Kripke failed to keep me abreast of his plans. I'm sure it was simply an oversight…. Eric, call me, we'll do lunch. Or if you're too busy, then let Jensen. I'm available… _really._ – B.J.

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Chapter Two - Bedtime Stories and Real Life

Dean managed to down most of the chicken broth and it actually tasted good; nice and warm in his stomach, helping to take the chill out of his bones that lingered from the mountain. Dad hovered for a few minutes, asking if he needed anything else before leaving him to get that much needed sleep. He was still lying there, swaddled tightly in his protective bedding, a mummy hiding from the reality of his world, when he heard small, light footsteps approaching and a soft voice whispering.

"Dean, you awake?"

He shifted over and lifted his head until he could see his little brother peering expectantly over the foot of the bed.

"Sammy, aren't you supposed to be in bed?"

"Can't sleep; you didn't read to me."

Oh, yes, the nightly ritual. Sammy was nothing if not a creature of habit. In his self-absorption, Dean had forgotten about Sammy's needs. _How in the world did that happen?_

"What's it gonna be, sport?"

"Will you read the new book?"

John had let them select one luxury item each at the Salvation Army store when they picked up new, well, _new for them_, clothes; clothes that actually fit for a change. Sammy had raced to the book rack in the back and Dean had allowed him to choose two books, one for each of them. _Yeah, that's really what I wanted, another book._

Dad had looked at him funny when he presented their choices, but hadn't said a word, just let the clerk ring them up, handing her a crumpled old twenty for the four bags of clothes and treasured books.

Bambi and Winnie the Pooh. Dean could hardly wait for the surprise of which book Sammy would choose now. With dark anticipation, _like either would be a good choice, _he waited for the big reveal.

Bambi._ Well, that figures! How appropriate is that?_

"Come on up, snuggle in. You're going to have to turn the pages, all right?"

"Why?"

"'Cause you're a big boy now, you're supposed to be in school this year. Can you help me out there, dude?"

"Sure, Dean. I'm a big boy."

Sammy snuggled into the crook of Dean's right side, and Dean wrapped his good arm tight around him.

"Okay, Sammy, you hold the book and turn the pages for me." And Dean proceeded to read. Sammy hung on every word, mesmerized by the bright pictures and riveting action yet totally missing the resemblance to Dean's hunt that afternoon, too young to connect a story to real life; after all, these were pretty, multi-colored drawings and the venison was simply red meat, almost like they sometimes got from the store, just not wrapped in the clear store plastic, but why would Sammy notice that? Dean was grateful for his innocence; how could he explain to his baby brother that he was the mean old hunter who killed Bambi's mother? _Be grateful for small blessings, Winchester._

Sammy dozed off midway through the story, so Dean gently lifted the book from his small hands and placed it beside the bed. His fingers loosely ran through his brother's too long hair, soothing him in his slumber and finding the comfort he always felt from having his brother close to him, safely tucked into big brother's bed for the night.

When they were younger, it was Dean who would crawl into baby Sammy's crib to wrap his arms protectively around his brother, keeping him safe from the danger that lurked in the shadows, the monsters Dean knew existed outside of storybooks, flesh and blood, and awful, unknown creatures that made up every horror a young child could imagine and several that were beyond comprehension. Now it was Sammy who crawled into his brother's bed each night to find the safety the night would otherwise not allow. The two of them together, united and invincible. _Dad said so._

---

Morning came and Dean was the first one to stir, his arm throbbing unmercifully, reminding him of something he had hoped to forget in the early bask of a new day. _Not so easy, is it?_

He tried to move it and a shooting pain ran all the way to his shoulder, worse than the previous night, worse than any previous injury. _Crap! _He had woken several times during the night, barely slept, actually, from the pain, from the memories, from the trauma. _Oh, quit being such a baby, Winchester! _

His brother stirred then and Dean whispered in his ear.

"Sammy, you awake?"

"Uh-huh."

"Sammy, can you do something for me?"

"What?" a small voice answered, still half-asleep.

"Get one of those big plastic baggies, you know, the one that slides closed and fill it with ice cubes. Can you do that? Just bring it back to me, all right?"

"Sure, Dean."

Sammy slipped from the bed and padded out the door. Dean tried to maneuver to a sitting position, using his good right arm to hoist himself up, dreading the inevitable. He was going to have to tell Dad about his injury, a bag of ice was not going to fix this. _Damn it all!_

Sammy returned with the bag of ice and he wrapped it around his wrist, the cold startling at first, but then it somewhat numbed the pain, still quite evident, but manageable. Dad had commented more than once about his high pain threshold, what a handy benefit it was for a hunter. Guess it meant you could keep on hunting when others would be screaming for the morphine. _Whatever. _The fact was if his wrist was broken, and it certainly felt like it was, it would need to be set and getting broken bones set was painful regardless. But a Winchester does what needs doing, 'cause what's the alternative? _Exactly!_

"Dean, tell me about the hunt." Eyes wide with wonder, excitement for the unknown, knowing if Dean did something it just had to be grand, 'cause _Dean did it_.

Sometimes the pressure to impress his little brother was overwhelming…the need to always be there, to always be strong, to always be right. _Sometimes I just feel so wrong._

"Hey, dude. How ya feeling?" Low, rumbling voice, saved from the tale yet again.

John was standing in the doorway, a tender smile on his face, shining through his eyes as he observed his boys.

"Dad, I need to tell you something."

"What is it? You feeling better? You got a little more color in your face. You sleep?"

"Off and on." _Damn it, just say it, no changing things now. _"Dad, I think I broke my wrist yesterday."

"What?" Dad made his way from the door to the bed in two long strides. "Why didn't you tell me? Let me see."

Dean presented the injured arm, taking the ice bag off and looking at the swollen, discolored wrist and hand as John gently took it and manipulated his fingers and hand.

"That hurt?"

"Ah, yeah." Dean grimaced, trying to quell the scream he felt like delivering.

"Sure enough looks broke. Dean, what were you thinking?" The concerned tone quickly morphed into disappointment, the underlying message clear. "Why didn't you tell me yesterday?"

"I was hoping I was wrong. Sorry, Dad."

"Get dressed, we're going to Emergency."

"Can't _you_ set it?" Dean pleaded.

"Not a wrist, too intricate." All tenderness now gone as the drill sergeant took command. "Sammy, get dressed, you'll have to come too. Dean, next time, you tell me right away and the ice needs to go on right away too. It would have helped keep the swelling down."

"Yes, sir."

Dean slid out of the bed and grabbed his jeans off the floor, wondering how in the world he was going to get them on with only one hand.

"Sit down on the bed," Dad instructed. John slid the jeans up his legs and pushed the frayed hems past his feet. "Okay, stand up." Dean stood and John pulled them the rest of the way up.

"Thanks.… Dad, I'm sorry," Dean offered.

With a low voice, stiff and rough like sandpaper, John muttered, "I just don't know what you were thinking."

"I didn't want you to be mad," Dean softly replied, wishing he had kept his mouth shut as soon as he saw the hurt look in his dad's eyes.

John just stared at his older son, lost without a comment. _Am I that much of a hardass? My own son is worried to tell me he broke his goddamn wrist?_

Dean continued, trying to ease his dad's pain, "I didn't want to disappoint you, I didn't… I hoped it wasn't… I wasn't sure 'til this morning."

"Sammy, you ready?" John gruffly asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Let's get going."

---

_Typical hospital bureaucracy. _Forms in triplicate, copies of insurance cards, fake of course, Milton Abernathy and his two young sons, waiting interminably 'cause _what's your hurry? Enjoy the view_, sit down, put your feet up, take a load off and, oh, don't go dying on us before you see the doc, doesn't look good on the stats. And then the questions, the concerned looks and the pregnant pauses; ahem, _all males here, not_ _having any babies, thank God!_

Dean knew their game, divide and conquer, see if the kid's story matches up to the old man's. He'd been down that road a time or two. Double check for abuse in the home, did you notice the worn clothing? They look fed, but you never can tell. Any unexplainable bruises? Any skittish moves or shaky looks? What's with the other kid? Older boy seems to look out for the younger one, very protective. What's he protecting him_ from?_

Then the pokes and prods and more questions. How'd this happen? When? Looks like at least twelve hours prior, why the delay? _Goddamn it! Just leave me the hell alone!_

_Settle down now, kid. _X-rays and pain meds and the inevitable setting of the bones. No tears, just tense, determined posturing. Incredible pain tolerance, this kid.

_Can I go home now?_

"Dean, tell me again, what happened?"

"I fell. End of story. Can I go home now?"

"Sure. I just need to talk to your dad about your meds. We'll see you again in six weeks."

_Yeah, right, like we'll still be here in six weeks?_

---

Dark, rainy sky again, cold still hanging on, not as bad as on the mountain, but colder than normal, enough to chill you to the bone; enough to make you long for an Arizona winter amid the palm trees and cactus, instead of the majesty of Colorado with the first snow threatening to fall any day now. _What the hell good is freaking snow, anyway? Not like we were going skiing or snowboarding anytime soon. Never once built a snowman. Christ, don't even know how a sled works. How do you stop it at the bottom of the hill or does it just run out of go? _

"Who's up for ice cream?" Dad asked, obviously trying to purchase a little bit of normal for his sons.

"Kinda cold for ice cream, Dad."

"Yeah," he distractedly replied. Turning back towards his sons he earnestly asked, "What then? Anything you want, you name it."

Sammy looked at Dean with anticipation, family outings were a rare treat, usually reserved for when Dad was trying to merit forgiveness for some infraction, perceived or real. Sammy had no clue what Dad had done this time, but he was anxious to benefit from his lapse. He hadn't really figured out the whole concept of buying forgiveness or making up for slights, but an outing sounded appealing…exciting and different.

Dean just looked out the window of the Impala lost again on the mountain, _remembering…._

"So…what's it gonna be? Dean? Sammy?"

"Whatever, Dad. Sammy, you choose."

Such a decision for a six-year-old. Still he didn't know many possibilities, having experienced so few of these treats.

"Dean, I don't know. What should we do?"

"How about pizza, Sammy?"

"Pizza! Yay! Dad, lets have pizza."

"All right. Pizza it is."

Dean suddenly realized his flu excuse was obviously a wrong diagnosis. He would hardly be up for pizza if it had been the flu. But then he remembered he had mentioned it could just be something he ate. _Yeah, that was it, something I ate didn't agree with me._

---

_Chuck E. Cheese Pizza_. How _humiliating! _Dean swore if that fucking freak in the mouse suit came near him he was going to punch him with his one good fist. _Christ!_

His threatening stares must have registered with the halfwit selling his soul for four bucks an hour 'cause he gave a wide berth to the Winchesters. Good thing, 'cause even Sammy was rattled by that freak, never did like clowns or full grown mice wearing oversized ball caps.

Dad seemed distracted. The truth being only Sammy seemed to be enjoying this little outing, as long as the mouse stayed on his side of the room. Oh, the pizza disappeared; after all, it was way past lunch time, the entire morning and early afternoon spent wasted at the emergency room, and John had a man's appetite and Dean was a growing boy and Sammy, well, he just liked pizza.

John pulled out his wallet and laid out a five dollar bill for tokens for the arcade games. Sammy's eyes grew wide with barely contained enthusiasm.

"Dean, what do you want to play? Huh? Ohhh, they have a carousel ride, you wanna go on that?"

"Sammy, still a little shaky from the meds, why don't you go and I'll be right there when you get off. All right?"

"Okay!"

_Six years old, a good age,_ Dean thought. _Good for Sammy. Hadn't been so good for me…had just started talking again, still having the nightmares, still remembering the sights and sounds.., the smell. Oh, God! Why are you dredging up all this crap again? Just let it go…._

_A good age for Sammy. Still believes in something, still thinks the world is all right as long as Dad or I are with him. Knows a little about some of the crap, but not much…not really. Gotta keep it that way, gotta try to let him be a kid as long as possible. He deserves that much…at least for now._

"Who wants the last piece? No one? Going, going, gone." Dad grabbed up the last piece of pizza with a grin, forced, no doubt, but still, the man was trying.

"Dean, you sure you don't want to play any games? I think I got a few more bucks."

"No thanks, Dad. Not much point one-handed, might as well save it for later, when I can actually move all the levers. Not much in the mood, anyway."

"You all right, son?"

"Just tired, long day."

"We better get you home, then. Sammy, let's get your brother home, he needs his rest."

Sam stood by their table, his eyes wide, his soft voice curious, worry tentatively peeking out. "Dean, you sick?"

"No, Sammy, just tired. I'll be fine." Dean offered him a reassuring smile, while his distant eyes and the slump of his shoulders betrayed how exhausted he truly was. "We get home and I'll finish reading your story before bedtime. You like that?" His eyes brightened as his kid brother responded with his own radiant smile.

"Sure." Smile as big as the Colorado sky on a clear moonlit night, bright as any of the stars that shone down from the heavens. All Dean needed to lighten his sullen mood. Sammy just had that affect on you, like a little piece of heaven reserved just for the Winchesters. Hard to believe they would warrant such a gift, but how could anyone resist that smile?

---

Barely seven o'clock at night and Dean was done for, ready to finish off Sammy's story and hit the sack.

"Dean, it's too early. I don't wanna go to bed yet."

"Sorry, Sammy, I do. Look, I'll read you your story and then you can stay up, but I need to go to sleep. That a deal, sport?"

"Deal!"

Dean again shuffled out of his jeans and climbed into bed, the cast now awkward and annoying, but the pain meds were dulling the pain to a minor ache and were probably contributing to his sleepy condition, now that he thought about it.

Sammy cozied up into his regular position within his brother's strong grasp, tight into his side, like a Siamese twin joined at the chest. He grabbed the selected book off of the wood crate that doubled as a nightstand and opened it up to the precise page they had left off with last night. Dean again read, while Sammy turned the pages.

Sammy focused on every word his brother spoke, following along with the words he knew on the page. Actually stopping his brother once when he skipped a whole paragraph, the pain meds scrambling Dean's concentration yet again. Finally when it appeared to be draining too much of Dean's energy, Dad stepped in.

"I think that's enough for tonight, huh, Sammy? Or how about I finish the story for you?"

"That's all right. Dean can finish tomorrow night." No apology for dismissing his own father, no realization that maybe in another universe Dads did actually read to their own sons. Just the simple plain fact: _I can wait for Dean._

He jumped up then and threw his arms around his brother in a tight hug, followed by a quick peck on his brother's cheek, reciprocated by his big brother's gentle embrace and tousle of his hair.

"'Night, Sammy. Sleep tight."

"Love you, Dean," then a defiant, "I'm not going to bed now, too early."

"I know, sport; sleep tight _later_, all right? Love ya, bro."

So easy, so natural. Just love and hugs and kisses, and off to bed or not. John wondered how they ever became so close, really just two parts of one whole. _His sons. _Together they could conquer anything and would, John knew.

Sammy raced out of the room, already agreed that he could stay up 'til eight-thirty watching TV, the cartoon network if previous viewing patterns provided any clues.

John glanced from his weary son to the book on the crate beside his bed. _Bambi__, don't that beat all?_

"Maybe you should have tried to talk him into the other book, what was it again? Pooh?"

"Why? He wanted to read this one."

"You all right with that?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I just thought.…you know."

"What?"

"I don't know, just thought maybe…"

"It's a goddamn book, Dad, just a story."

"You know, Dean, your mom wouldn't be too pleased with all the cussing."

And that made Dean stop cold. _Damn it, Dad, why'd you have to say that?_

_Damn it, John, what a stupid comment._

Silence again bore down upon them, a cold chill filled the room, and both father and son appeared frozen in a time warp, both remembering things that were better left in the shadows of the mind, locked away; memories unvisited because they only served to offer up more pain. More pain than either could face.

John broke through the bitter pall first, more experienced with dealing with his emotions, more able to get past the hurt, bury the pain and resume normal, fucked-up living.

"You better get that rest. See you in the morning."

Dean slowly raised his eyes to gaze upon his dad, his voice soft as he responded in a whisper, "'Night, Dad."

Dean lay there in the dark, not only thinking of the brown eyes, but now the hazel-green eyes. The eyes everyone told him he got from his mom. When he first heard that, he had closed his eyes whenever he passed a mirror, not wanting to see her reflection staring back at him. _Too painful, too raw._ He still remembered old friends of his mom trying to be kind after the fire and telling him how much he looked like his mom, how he had her eyes, her beautiful blond hair, her flawless skin and bone structure, her freckles…how she would always live on in him. Talk about pain, _how was he supposed to deal with that? How was he supposed to wrap his four-year-old mind around that?_

One time his dad found him frantically scrubbing his face with a scouring pad, the bridge of his nose raw and bloody, his cheeks red and ready to bleed. _What the hell are you doing? _Dad had asked. The antiseptic really stung and made his eyes water, and the scrapes took almost three weeks to heal, and that was just about how long it took before Dean confessed he was trying to erase Mom's freckles.

Over the years, he learned to accept the resemblance, even though he sometimes thought it pained his dad to constantly be reminded of her, that she was gone, never to return, and he was left with just a poor copy. Sammy looked more like Dad, and that was a blessing 'cause Dean only had to face the truth that she was truly gone when he looked in a mirror; the rest of the time he could fool himself into thinking he was his own man and he could let his mind forget the pain, if only temporarily.

The truth was Mom was never really gone, she was always close in his heart and thoughts, and he liked having her with him. When he was scared and agonized, desperate for her love and the life he lived before, she would come to him and soothe him by whispering tender words of comfort or softly singing a familiar tune. There, in those cherished moments when he most needed her, she would appear to his heart, just beyond sight or grasp, to guide him through his pain. His mind could never really wrap itself around the sensation, he knew it couldn't possibly be real; yet, he would feel a serenity come over him as he felt her calming presence and he knew she was close by, watching over him. _Oh, God, I miss you so much._

And then there were the other times, when facing the reality that she was truly gone was just too overpowering, too painful, too tragic to handle all over again. In those times he ran from the memories and immersed himself in some false dream or illusion. He would let the fantasy take hold and lead him away from all the terrible truths that were just too horrendous to face. It was in those times of denial he avoided the mirror.

Over the years he found when he was scared or doubted his ability to carry on, if he thought about Mom, it helped focus his determination. He always tried his best to be brave, to put aside his worries and fear and be the strong man she would want him to be: to take care of Sammy, to take care of Dad…to keep his family safe and together. _He so wanted her to be proud of him. He needed it._

So he thought about her every day and tried to be brave. He tried to make her proud and be the man she would expect him to be. Sammy depended on him. Dad depended on him. He knew in his heart _Mom was depending on him to be brave and strong and carry onward. _He shuttered his heart to the pain and soldiered on. He was a Winchester and he was a hunter, a soldier in his dad's war on evil, a warrior for right. He buried his emotions in a dark corner of his heart, where pain and suffering lingered on cold, rainy nights when the memories wouldn't leave him alone; buried them deep amongst his hurts and terrors in the black ominous cavern of his heart.

TBC

Reviews would make my day…_really._

Thanks for reading, B.J.


	3. Lost Dreams as a Warrior is Born

Chapter Three – Lost Dreams as a Warrior is Born

The cabin John had rented for the week was one of the nicest places they'd ever stayed in, even conveniently having a mini kitchen so he could cook up his steaks. Still, by the end of the week, Dean knew Dad was itching for a hunt; he could read the signs. John hated being locked up in one place for too long, hated being out of the battle. He paced around the cabin like a caged animal, picking up his cell phone on the first ring, desperate for it to be a plea for help, a reason to head out on the road again. John just wanted someone to need him, to require his services, to focus his attention on a job, never noticing his sons needed him.

Dean was reliving his hunt every night in his nightmares. He felt trapped in a time loop, just like when Mom died and he couldn't get the visions out of his mind. Over and over the events of his hunt rewound in his head, the pain of that day twisting and knotting up his gut, revealing his inadequacy, exposing his shame.

_Why the hell can't I just let it go? To just accept that I'm a hunter and I am going to kill things.., many things. How does Dad do it? Am I defective? I can't disappoint him; I won't. I just need to find a way to get past this and do my job._

Sammy was the only one content to be where they were. He had his big brother, his dad, a TV with the cartoon network and his books; what more could a six-year-old ask for? Dean had read Bambi six times, front to back, and that had been enough. Even Pooh would be an improvement, but luck didn't seem to be on his side lately. _Had it ever?_

"Dean, will you read to me?" Sammy looked at Dean with doe eyes.

_Yeah, I know, but how am I supposed to say no to that?_

Dean checked out the book slung under his arm, the color of the cover betraying the title. _Yep, __Bambi__ again._

"Don't you wanna read your other book, Sammy?" A futile hope, Dean knew. Sammy was nothing if not a creature of habit. He would pick out a book and have you read it until he knew all the words by heart. _Another ten or twelve times ought to do it._

"Nope."

"All right, then, snuggle in." Dean made room beside him in the oversized chair in the corner of the cabin. That seemed to signal Dad's cue to leave.

"I'm gonna stretch my legs, boys. Dean, come lock the door," John instructed.

Dad certainly wasn't up for another sampling of Bambi, and he'd sat through only one telling. Dean didn't question it, Sammy didn't notice. _Dad had more important matters on his mind._

As soon as Dad left and the door was secured, Sammy was waiting, ready to snuggle in for his comfort story. Too bad it wasn't a comfort for Dean.

Dean's mind knew it was just a story; still his heart feared the truth of it. He waited for the day Sammy connected the story to his hunt, when he would finally realize the truth: his perfect big brother was a killer, hardly the hero he now worshipped. That was the reality of his nightmares; how they always ended, with Sammy looking at him with condemning eyes before turning and walking away. The panic would awaken him in a cold sweat, his chest clenched in pain, crying out to his brother not to leave him alone. _Please, Sammy, forgive me, don't leave me._

---

John had barely gotten past the side of the cabin on his way to the Impala parked in the back lot, when his phone rang.

"John Winchester… Yeah? ...Uh-huh, I can be there by tomorrow morning… Yeah, Jim, I'll bring the boys." The phone flipped closed and John smiled. _Another job._

He proceeded to the Impala to check it out for the road. Check the oil, tire pressure and munitions. Better head on back to Caleb after this job to restock, a little low on ammo and silver. Dean had fallen behind melting the silver into bullets since his arm's been in the cast. Maybe if he left the boys with Pastor Jim, he could get caught up again.

He then headed over to the office to check out. Twenty minutes and they would be back on the road again, just like he liked. The open road at least gave the illusion he wasn't a trapped man; that he had options, choices still left to be made. The Impala was the only home they knew now and he felt a certain comfort when he had her opened up on the highway, the roar of her powerful engine making him feel alive again. His foot on the accelerator giving him back the power he sometimes felt he had lost, some control over his destiny.

Three raps on the door, count to two, two more raps. "Dean, it's me," and the door opens.

"Pack it up, we're leaving."

A startled look flashed across Dean's face, then resigned and dutiful, followed by focused action. Empty the bathroom of the free shampoo and soap, toilet paper and tissues. Grab up Sammy's few books that were scattered on the table and floor and toss them in his duffel bag. Collect the shotgun by the bedroom door, the Colt off the dresser and the Ruger by the fridge and stuff them in the weapons duffel. Grab the sneakers under the bed and lace them up, help Sammy with his. No need to check the dresser drawers, never used. Empty the mini-fridge of pop and beer, cereal box and pop tarts on the counter thrown in the bag for good measure and they were packed.

Two trips to the Impala and they were good to go. Dean settled into the back seat with Sammy as John started the engine.

Twenty miles down the road and no word from John so Dean finally asked, "Where we headed?"

"Minnesota."

Dean sighed. "Settle in, Sammy, it's a long drive."

---

Dean wasn't the best student when he attended school, but hardly the worst; and considering the extenuating circumstances, what exactly was anyone expecting? He was sharp enough he probably could have been at the top of the class, assuming he ever stayed long enough to actually become a member of a class. That is if he only had the drive and inclination for school studies like he had for learning the skills of the hunting trade.

Hard to be caught up when you were always the new kid in town, assuming they even bothered to register him for school. More often than not, they skipped that part. John needed him to watch over Sammy and since they usually weren't anywhere longer than the next job, it didn't seem worth the effort.

He became increasingly frustrated with school whenever he did attend. Every school in every state went at a different pace and had a varied curriculum. Most times he either rehashed the same tired info or was plopped down in the middle of something he never had the preliminaries for. He soon learned not to care; he'd probably not be there for the next test anyway.

Most of his valued education came at the side of his dad: proper use of firearms, how to break down and reassemble a rifle, what killed the sundry evil creatures lurking in the dark, and deciphering the internet research and dusty old journals buried in some long forgotten room of the local library or church.

The one traditional education he devoured was geography, specifically U.S. Geography: where every state was and the locations of the major cities within, the natural topography, and the distance from point A to point B and the ETA. His least favorite subject was the Latin John made him study on his own as they crisscrossed the country. He didn't like it, but he knew it was a necessary skill, so he spent the requisite time trying to master it, or at least become proficient enough to properly enunciate the words of an exorcism.

_Minnesota, roughly one thousand miles, fourteen hours drive time, one hour to stop for fuel and food, ETA ten o'clock the next morning._

Pastor Jim was in Minnesota and he wondered if they would be visiting him. He hoped so. He liked it at Pastor Jim's, one of the few places that almost seemed like home. _Not really_, after all Dean remembered what a real home felt like, but still the closest they ever got now.

Sammy was soon fast asleep, his head resting gently against his big brother's chest, Dean's good arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders as the gentle rocking of the old girl's springs lulled him into slumber. Dean stared out at the night for awhile until boredom got the better of him and he decided he might as well try to get some shuteye, never knowing what might transpire later. Dad had already schooled him to catch sleep whenever it was available. A soldier can sleep in a dugout with mortars exploding all around him, as long as a sentry was on duty. _Guess Dad has it covered._

John drove through the night, used to long days and nights with no sleep, a soldier conditioned in the ways of battle, existing on pure grit and determination, finally finding a purpose again, a reason to keep moving forward, _a job._

---

As soon as the Impala's automatic transmission shifted down, Dean stirred, sensing they would be stopping. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and peered out into the early morning light.

"What time is it?"

"Six o'clock. You hungry?"

"Whatever. I can wait if you want." Dean's stomach was growling and he hoped the racket didn't reach the front seat. If they were headed to Pastor Jim's, he was kinda hoping for the preacher's pancakes, but that was going to be at least another three or four hours and he honestly didn't know if he would last that long.

"Well, I need a rest. Let's get some breakfast. Wake up Sammy."

"Where we at?"

"Lincoln, Nebraska. We'll be in Blue Earth by ten."

_So we will be seeing the good pastor. Missed breakfast today, hope we stay 'til tomorrow. Pastor Jim makes the best pancakes, actually won an award once; at least that's what he said._ Rest of the trip should go fast, interstate from here on. Just a quick jog to the I-29 and then on up to the I-90 and Pastor Jim was right off the highway near the state line.

The International House of Pancakes had decent waffles, but Dean had learned long ago to avoid the pancakes, they simply weren't Pastor Jim's, regardless of the joint's name. Dad was studying his journal as they ate so the boys ate in silence, except for Sammy's running commentary on the flavors of syrup, the other patrons, the cars parked outside the window in the side lot and anything else that struck his fancy. In other words, a total chatterbox of verbal, one-sided exchanges with a simple _oh_ or _ah_ peppered in by Dean when Sam left a convenient hole just asking to be plugged. Dean just savored the fresh milk. You can never have too much cold, fresh milk. That was his number one rule.

Dean was stuffing down his sausage and eggs when he was distracted by a young mother with long, silky blond hair sitting to the side of them in a booth with her two small sons, a preschooler and a baby. Her voice as she spoke quietly to her sons so soothing and sweet, bringing pleasant, no _painful _memories wafting over him. He tried to ignore them, let them have their privacy, but he was drawn to them, longing to be sitting in that booth, longing for his mom to be tenderly stroking his hair like this mom was now doing for her older son. Dean missed the closeness and comfort of his mom beside him. _God, I miss you, Mom, but I'm trying my best to be brave. I'm gonna take care of Sammy, I promise. _

"Dean, you take your meds this morning?"

"What?" Just a moment then to return to the present, to once more leave the past and the future that would never be behind him, "No, don't need 'em."

"You sure? No pain?"

"Nothing I can't handle. They make me loopy; I'm not as sharp with them."

_That's my boy. Great pain tolerance. Always wanting to be ready to protect his brother. _

The routine when they traveled on a job was strict and non-negotiable: order quickly, eat quickly, use the restroom and pile back into the car. Thirty-four minutes this time, a new record for a sit down place. Might just pull into Pastor Jim's ahead of schedule.

---

The rest of the drive was uneventful aside from the obvious anticipation. Once Sammy learned they were headed to Pastor Jim's, his face lit up; this was so much better than another cheap motel room. Dean had to subdue his chattering. Dad hated excessive talk in the car, distracted him from the sights and sounds of the road, diverted his attention.

"Dean," Sammy whispered, "Does Pastor Jim know we're coming?"

"Yeah, he does."

"Think he'll play Go Fish with me?"

_God,_ Dean hated that game, yet Pastor Jim would play it with Sammy for an hour or more with no complaints. It made Dean feel guilty every time he sidestepped the opportunity, always finding some excuse or distraction. _Hell, I'd rather read __Bambi__ for the hundredth time than play that stupid game._

John pulled into Blue Earth and headed straight for the church and the small parish house next door. Figuring Jim was inside the church he walked up the steps to the chapel first, peering inside, ascertaining no service was ongoing. Even though this was the middle of the week he didn't want to unexpectedly walk in on a funeral or something. _Been there, done that, not fun._

"John, you made it. Boys, my, my, how you've grown. Dean, you're gonna be a tall one, but we need to get some more meat on you." Then a startled look, "What happened to your arm?"

"Jim, got here as soon as we could. Boys, you go on down to the basement and let Jim and me talk."

"Yes, sir."

"Wait. Dean, what's with the cast?"

Dean's eyes skittered off to the side before rising up, hesitant, but still determined, his voice soft as he replied, "It's nothing, just fell."

Jim knelt down as he pulled Dean to him and gave him a huge bear hug. Dean seemed uncomfortable at first, but he didn't fight it; in fact, he seemed to linger in the preacher's embrace, a human connection other than a pint-sized one, again reminding him what it had once been like. Which was both good and bad: good 'cause it felt so damn comforting to have that fleeting contact, but ultimately bad 'cause he knew it wouldn't last, and it only made the pain of losing his parents' hugs resurface again. Sammy jumped into the preacher's arms as soon as Dean vacated and Jim hefted him up off the floor.

"Whoa. I'm not going to be able to pick you up for much longer, you're getting big there, young man."

"Dean says I'm a big boy."

"He does? Well, Dean is never wrong. Right?"

"Right!"

John waited impatiently while they concluded their hellos; the pastor fussing over his sons was not something he necessarily approved of, them being soldiers and all. Jim sometimes noted he was surprised the boys didn't salute him for a greeting.

Dean took Sammy down to the basement then, Jim handing him the keys to the armory hidden beneath the sacred ground. Dean was interested in scoping out any new weapons the good pastor might have acquired and Sammy could amuse himself with the cards Jim kept at the small table down there. John felt safe having his children loose in a room full of guns and knives and God knows what, literally. Safer than leaving them anywhere else, actually; for his sons were used to weapons, knew how to respect them, and more importantly, knew how to use them.

"So, Jim, tell me about this job."

"It sounds like a vengeful spirit. Three members of a family have died mysteriously in the last month. A business rival of the patriarch died one week prior to the first death."

John cocked his head to the side, his voice flat, almost disinterested. "Sounds like a simple salt and burn. Why call me?"

With a slight arch of his brows, Jim indicated he had more information to reveal. "The business rival was cremated, nothing left to salt and burn."

"All right, you got my interest. What else?"

"All three deaths were ruled suicide or accidental."

John narrowed his eyes as he studied the pastor. "Which you don't believe?"

"No. They were all on edge and scared days prior to their deaths."

"Why? They see something or feel something?"

Jim shrugged his shoulders. "That's all I know. The third man's wife came to me asking for help. The family is beginning to think they're cursed."

"Yeah, could be." John scratched at the stubble on his chin, deep in thought as he pondered the facts. "You said this was two hours north of here? We better head on out then and check it out."

"John, you're going to leave the boys here, aren't you? And you need to get some rest; you've been driving for hours."

"I don't know, Jim. I guess I could use a few hours' sleep."

"Then it's settled," Jim responded with relief. He slapped his hand on the back of his old friend and motioned toward his home to the side of the church. "Go on over to the house and get some rest, I've got the boys."

---

"So, Dean, what happened with the arm?"

"I told you, Pastor Jim, I fell."

"I know, but how'd you fall? What were you doing when you fell?"

Dean was casually checking out the guns hanging on the wall of the armory, his mind obviously on things other than the present conversation. "I was hiking in the woods, just slipped on the moss, no biggie."

Pastor Jim's attention never wavered from the young man before him…this child of John Winchester, the soldier still being molded by the seasoned hunter. "It must have hurt. How's it feel now?"

"Fine. Where'd you get that new dagger, the one with the red grip?" Dean looked up and locked his eyes with the preacher. A crooked grin filled out his lips as his eyes sparkled, his voice filled with awe. "Wicked."

"Caleb sent it to me. How's your training coming?" Jim tried to gauge Dean's reactions. He seemed hesitant to talk about his injury, but that was standard practice for John's son. Dean never complained about anything, just accepted whatever was thrown his way, like he knew better than to expect anything more.

Jim knew there was no way John would physically hurt his sons. He was aware the authorities had previously suspected abuse because of an injury, but he knew the truth. John would never willfully hurt his sons. The danger with John came in his attitude towards his sons. John saw them as warriors in his battles with evil and treated them as such, especially Dean. He refused to acknowledge Dean was still a child, adamantly insisting he could no longer be allowed the luxury of childhood. _As if a ten-year-old should have to fight for the right to still be a child?_

"Dad says I need to work on my martial arts skills; firearms are good, getting more accurate with my knife throwing and I'm reading The Art of War," Dean replied with a matter-of-fact voice.

Jim shifted uncomfortably, his eyes growing ever more concerned. "Seen any good movies lately? Last time you were here you were excited about that new action movie, what was it again? How was that?"

"Hmmm, never saw it…, whatever it was. Not much chance to go to the theater. Sammy and I watch movies on TV sometimes. He likes the comedies, I like the action flicks. Just saw _Mad Max_ and the _Road Warrior_." The dimples came out and the grin was sincere, a childlike glee evident in his tone. "They were awesome, cool car."

Jim nodded, his eyes still fixed upon the child before him. "Yeah, I've seen those. He's a little harsh, don't you think?"

"Why?" Dean questioned, a curious look in his eyes.

"He's such a loner, don't you find that sad? How disconnected he is?"

Dean puzzled over that comment for a mere instant before replying, firm and sure, "No. He's strong and tough." Dean then gazed at the preacher with a wistful look before softly muttering, "I wish I was more like him."

Taken aback, the pastor leaned in, reaching into Dean's personal space to try and connect with him. "Why, Dean? Why would you want that?"

The boy's head hung down, before he looked up again from beneath unnaturally long lashes that didn't belong on a boy so young, didn't belong on a boy period. They shielded his sensitive green eyes, allowing only a glimmer of the truth to shine through. The curve of his face, not yet coming into the strong bone structure beneath the soft padding of his youth, and his hesitant manner, all conspiring to make him look even younger, even more wounded as he quietly revealed a piece of himself, a side he tried so valiantly to hide from his own father. "'Cause he handles it all. He doesn't let it _get_ to him. He's a warrior."

Jim gasped in a breath, his heart aching for this boy, for his fate and the destiny that awaited him, knowing this was only the beginning. "Dean, you're only ten years old," he reasoned, "No one expects you to be a warrior. You don't have to be strong and tough all the time." He captured the boy's eyes, speaking to his heart. "It's all right to feel things."

Dean looked up with sad, pensive eyes, his mind attempting to process the preacher's words before dismissing them as pure rubbish, his tone too harsh for one so young, too determined and sure. "No, it's _not._ I'm _not_ a kid, not anymore. I'm almost eleven and Dad expects me to be a warrior…I expect it."

The certainty in his eyes was heart-wrenching, the path his life was set upon only offering up pain for the preacher. Jim knew Dean believed what he was saying and that was the true tragedy for the Winchesters. Dean didn't feel slighted at losing his childhood. Rather, he readily accepted it, embraced it, not knowing any other outlook, not believing he deserved anything more. _Damn it, John, can't you see what you've made of your son?_

Rubbing at the tension behind his eyes, Jim tried another approach; one that he knew could always reach Dean. "How about Sammy? Do you expect _him_ to be a warrior too?"

Dean looked up in surprise at that question and appeared to be mulling the concept over in his mind. His eyes seemed to flicker at the prospect, a slight sense of dread as he considered that option, before he furrowed his brow and responded, "Sammy has _me_ to take care of him. He can be a kid. I'll protect him."

Softly the pastor prodded, "Who protects you, Dean?"

No hesitation at all before the response came. "Dad protects me."

"Then why can't you be a kid? You know, Dean, you deserve that; you don't have to be a soldier all the time," Jim gently reasoned, hoping to somehow break through the conditioning John had imposed on his older son, hoping to temper all the responsibility Dean had readily assumed.

"Dad's got work to do. He's not always around. I have to be prepared; I have to always be ready…." Sincere eyes fixed his gaze upon the pastor, his head tilted to the side as his lips quirked before settling into a fine line. "You should know that, Pastor Jim. You know what's out there."

TBC


	4. Confessions of the Tormented

Chapter Four – Confessions of the Tormented

"Dean, where's your brother?"

Dean looked up and was startled to find his dad had woken from his nap and was standing in the doorway. "He's in the bedroom playing a game."

"Go join him. I need to speak with Jim."

Dean nodded and left the room after a quick glance from his dad to Pastor Jim and back again to his dad. He sensed Dad wasn't happy with the preacher and he wondered if he was mad at him too, if he had said something wrong.

As soon as Dean left John exploded, "What the hell are you doing, Jim?"

The pastor maintained his calm manner, his calling a perfect fit for the restrained man. "We were just talking. You know, Dean needs to talk about something other than munitions and tactics sometimes."

"He doesn't need you messing with his head."

"He's a child, John. He needs more than you realize. He's not a soldier and you can't burden him with the responsibility of Sammy." Jim softened his voice, trying to appeal to the father before him, trying to stay on neutral ground so as to not push the man away. "I know he wants to protect him and take care of him, and that's all right, it's natural. But he can't take on all the responsibility. It's not healthy; it's too much."

"They're _my_ children and I expect you to stay out of it," John adamantly responded.

"They _are_ children, both of them. You can't expect Dean to be a man." All of Jim's compassion played out upon his face, all of his concern for the boy bleeding out in his pleading tone. "John, _please_, let him be a child for as long as possible."

The hurt and anger in John was obvious, welling up from a deep reservoir of pain. "Well, time's up on that. Time ran out the night Mary died; the Demon saw to that."

Jim sighed, faced with a formidable opponent, one he had gone head to head with on too many occasions and never made any progress. He knew the man before him loved his sons more than life itself and John truly believed he was doing what was best for them, what would keep them alive in this battle against evil. On some level Jim wondered if he was right; but when he looked into Dean's eyes and saw the child within, his heart just had to fight for that child, to try to find a way to preserve the innocence he saw trapped beneath the façade of a soldier trying with all his might to do his duty.

John didn't waste any time before he continued, determinedly presenting more evidence to prove his point, "Dean just had his first kill."

"John, he's too young," Jim gasped out, his heart breaking even more.

"He's older than his years. He proved that."

"But he _is _still a child."

"He's my son and he's a soldier," John answered back with even greater force, his voice firm, his stance rigid.

Jim rubbed at his temples; a verbal war with John Winchester the last thing he needed. With solemn resignation he asked, "What did he hunt?"

"Bambi," John offered up, a wry smile breaking through to crack his tough image.

"That should make Sammy proud."

Ignoring the pastor with a huff of indignation, John focused on his view of his son. "He did good." A softer, decidedly proud smile emerged on his face, a smile Jim wished his son could see more often, most especially for something other than a hunt well done. John paused before he continued, revealing only the slightest hesitation, "He had me going for a minute, but he finished it. He did me proud."

"What happened?" Jim questioned, picking up on that hesitation, that brief flicker of doubt escaping from John Winchester's determined position. "Something happened, didn't it?"

"Took two shots is all." John furrowed his brows as distant thoughts crowded his mind before his gruff tone attempted to dismiss the preacher's concern along with his own. "A little too much hesitation before the second shot, but he came through."

With a sense of urgency laced with the dread of what the truth held, Jim pushed for answers, "John, why'd he hesitate?"

Casually, John answered, dismissing the concern, "Said he just wanted to take his time, make it count."

"And?" Their eyes connected as Jim pressed for more. "I know you, John, that's not all. What _really_ happened?"

John's grin wavered, a nervous laugh escaping as he rubbed at the whiskers along his jaw. "Damn deer.., broke its fool leg struggling on the rocks.., pretty gruesome, but Dean ended it." His dimples came out as he assumed the look of a proud father. "He did his job."

"And what did that do to him, John, witnessing that? _Causing_ that?"

"_Nothing_.., I said he's fine." The words came too quickly, too sure and firm, only his eyes flickering through his doubt before fixing in determination again. He locked his jaw as he repeated the end result, "He did good."

"He has Mary's heart, her tender side. You know that, John, that had to tear him up inside." Jim waited for some reaction, any indication he was cracking that impenetrable tough-guy image John was so good at presenting. When his comment garnered no reaction aside from a distant look of sadness he pressed onward. "John, did you talk to him?"

John snapped back to the conversation, all thoughts of Mary and their life before again buried deep in his denial. "About what?"

"How he felt."

"Yeah, right. We had a good talk and then we cried," John scoffed, his eyes again threatening, silently warning the good pastor to back off.

"John, don't patronize me."

"Yeah? Don't tell me how to raise my own son," he snarled, his anger barely contained. With total conviction he added, "I told you, he's _fine._ He knows how to do his job."

"John, he's ten years old, for God's sake."

"He's almost eleven, old enough." John quirked his head to the side as he shifted focus, playfully admonishing his old friend, "You better watch the language there, preacher."

"No swearing intended. I'm praying God is watching over that boy," Jim softly replied. His eyes glimmered with compassion as he offered a prayer for the child, "He needs God's grace."

Anger again rose up in the father, his son's course set, this discussion riling his senses and taking him down roads he'd adamantly refused to tread, knowing his son only had one choice in life. "He _needs _to be strong. Don't you go trying to turn him soft."

"He _is_ soft, like Mary; and yes, John, he _is_ strong like you, but can't we preserve both parts of him? Can't we try to keep what's left whole?"

"Jim, I'm his father and I know what's best. He's tough…." A tremulous grin appeared on his face, pride in his son again winning out over the preacher's concern. "You know, that's when he broke his wrist. Didn't even tell me 'til the next morning." He shook his head from side to side in wonder. "Damn, he's got great pain tolerance."

"For all kinds of pain."

"Jim, just stop it. He's _fine_, I told you that. He's a Winchester and he proved himself on this hunt. He's got what it takes."

"John, he'll give you everything he's got, but what's going to be left for him?" Tender eyes emphasized the preacher's plea as he refused to give up hope. "_Please_, let him have the time to grow up, he's already lost so much."

Anger again erupted from the father, at Jim, at Dean's fate, at the twisted life they were forced to live. "_I told you_, we don't have the luxury of time. We're at war. He's a soldier now. I don't like it, but that's the way it is." John's lips trembled for the barest moment before they fixed in a thin, firm line. "It _has _to be."

"But what's it going to do to him?" Jim questioned, fighting back, refusing to surrender.

"It'll make him strong," John insisted, certainty overwhelming any remnant of hidden doubt as he reiterated, "Strong enough to survive."

Desperate to break through, the pastor continued his assault. "At what cost? John, _at what cost?"_

"Jim, I know what's best. I'm his father, I'm handling this."

"I just don't want to see Mary die all over again." Jim softened his voice, again trying that kinder, gentler approach, imploring the man before him to reconsider his words of caution. "You know, John…, he is like Mary… sensitive, caring…" He sighed, all his concern in his voice as he questioned, "John, how can you kill the best part of him?"

"You think I want this? You think I want to lose another piece of Mary? All that's good and pure? All that's left of her?" Jim's comments were wearing him down; tears welled in his eyes, his own emotions threatening to overcome the stalwart soldier facing yet another battle, a battle of the heart. Years of experience reminding him to bury his feelings, shutter his heart to the pain and soldier on.

"Maybe you should at least talk to him, make him understand, help him figure this out," Jim suggested, trying to open the door to a more sensitive approach. Trying one more time to recover the humanity John used to possess, to reconnect with the tender man Mary had fallen in love with. Somewhere buried beneath years of battles was the compassionate man Mary would have believed was raising her sons, not the drill sergeant who battered them into formation and shaped them to his will.

John steeled his mind to his course of action, his determination winning out in this battle between the father and the soldier. "No. He's my son, too. He'll do what needs to be done. He'll find a way to handle it." He paused for a breath, locking eyes with the pastor as he spoke the harsh truth. "He'll do his job, he has to. He _knows_ that."

"I suppose," Jim relented, "but John, he still needs comfort sometimes. He needs to know you love him, that you're proud of him."

"Love's not gonna keep him alive. He needs to be strong. He needs to learn how to stand on his own." John's voice choked off, his face twisted as he struggled with the reality of his son's life. "I could die tomorrow, Jim, then what? Dean needs to depend on himself. He needs to be there for Sammy, I'm depending on him. If I'm not here, then Dean needs to do the job…and he will. He knows I love him; I'm not going to cripple him by coddling him. He's a Winchester, he'll deal."

"And how would Mary feel about this, John? What would Mary think of what you've made of your son?"

"Mary would want him to live. This is what he needs to do that. If Mary was here…if we were still a family….well, it'd be different, wouldn't it?" John paused as his mind took him to other times, other possibilities. He drew in a shaky breath before he continued, "Dean would be playing baseball instead of going to target practice. I'd be taking him fishing at the lake instead of on hunts." John gasped in another ragged breath before trudging on, his voice breaking with grief and resignation. "I'd be worried about him falling off his bike and whether the other kids accepted him at school. I'd be wondering if his friends were a good influence or not. Damn it, Jim, he'd _have_ friends. That's if we were a _normal_ family…."

Tears pooled in John's eyes, memories of Mary and their hopes for their sons filling him with overwhelming despair, threatening to again bury him in grief. _Damn it, Jim. I don't need you telling me how it should be. I damn well know how it should be, what Mary and I wanted for our sons. I'm telling you what the reality is, what Dean's life is now. _ He shuddered and waited for his soldier calm to once more lay claim to his body and mind, to again steel his soul to the task at hand. It took a few minutes before he was composed enough to continue on, defending his position to his old friend and to his own inner voice that also cried out in anguish over Dean's fate.

"Well, Jim, we're not a normal family and we never will be again." Another deep breath seemed to settle him, his determination surging forth alongside his frustration. "Damn it all, I just want to keep my boys alive and make sure they're ready for the evil that's out there looking to hurt them. If Dean needs a wall to protect him from his emotions, then he sure as hell better learn how to build it, 'cause he can't be Mary's son anymore. And that's just fact."

Dean swallowed hard as he stood just beyond the doorway, intently listening and absorbing the information provided. _That's the answer. I just need to build a wall around my heart. Then I can make Dad proud. Then I can do my duty and protect Sammy. _He stood there for a few minutes, contemplating his course of action, knowing it wouldn't be easy, but then again, nothing was easy for the Winchesters. He had come to expect that.

"Daddy?" Sammy appeared out of nowhere in the doorway, staring in at his dad and Pastor Jim. Dean quickly walked in behind him, grabbing his hand and preparing to lead him away so Dad and Jim could finish their conversation.

"Sorry, Dad. He just wanted to say goodnight."

"Hey, boys, how long you been there?"

"I just got here…" Sammy started before Dean cut him off, unsure what he might reveal.

Dean gently prodded his brother, "Why don't you say goodnight, Sammy, and then I'll read your story."

Sammy smiled up at his big brother, content for another round of Bambi. "'Night, Dad, 'night, Pastor Jim."

"Night, kiddo. You head on up to bed, I want to talk with your brother." Sammy padded off up the stairs to the guest bedroom and John turned to his older son, concern stretched across his face. "How long were you there, Dean?"

Dean hated lying to his dad, he couldn't remember when he ever had before, but somehow he knew he wouldn't be telling the truth now, not after what he just heard. "Not long." Intent eyes stared at the two men. Hungry ears had devoured their words and the concerns behind them, but he would never tell. He knew how to keep a secret.

"Dean, you head on up to bed too. We're leaving in the morning."

"Yes, sir." Dean saw the hope escape from Pastor Jim's eyes and he was truly sorry the preacher was worried about him, but he knew his fears were groundless. Dean had his answer and he was sure he could handle the next hunt; he just had to harden his heart to the pain and do what needed doing. He was sure he could construct that wall to hide behind, _I mean, how hard can it be? _He slowly climbed the stairs determined to be a warrior and make his dad proud. _And make Mom proud, 'cause I'm gonna do whatever it takes to take care of Sammy._

After Dean left, Jim tried one last plea. "John, why don't you leave the boys with me while you hunt this thing?"

"No, I want them with me." He then shot the pastor a look that didn't belong in a church as he pointedly added, "Besides I don't want you poisoning Dean's mind with your crap."

Jim knew he had taken a huge risk when he voiced his concerns to John, and now he feared the boys would be paying the price. John was nothing if not obstinate. "But they'll be alone at the motel, they won't be with you. John, please leave them with me. I won't say any more to Dean."

"The job won't take long, and then I'll be back with them."

"John, please. Reconsider."

"I told you, Jim, I want them with me."

"Didn't you learn anything from that Shtriga?"

John stiffened, a cold hard look of determination crossed his face as a frigid gaze turned back on the preacher. A tender nerve had been struck, but he was a Winchester and when threatened, they strike back, more venomous than a deadly cobra. A firm voice answered, slow and sure, each word carefully thought out and delivered with a methodical cutting tone.

"Question is, Jim, what did Dean learn?"

"John, he's still a boy. What do you expect from him?"

"I expect he'll follow orders and I expect he'll protect his brother."

"You're right, he probably will, but is that fair?"

John sighed, weary of this debate and tired of the thousand questions the preacher was battering him with, questions he had already confronted in his own mind. Questions that only had one answer. Not a popular answer for any of the parties involved, but such was the fate of the Winchesters. _This is just Dean's destiny._

"_Fair?_ Who said it was fair? I never said it was fair. Hell, Jim, nothing's been fair since Mary died. It's a goddamn shame, but that's just the way the cards were dealt. Dean has to step it up a notch. Sammy's lucky, he can be a kid for a bit longer 'cause he has Dean."

"And Dean? Doesn't Dean have you?" Pastor Jim was trying to reason, trying to find some argument that John would listen to, desperately trying to save Dean, but failing miserably.

"It's not the same. I'm not there all the time. There's a greater chance that I'm not gonna be there when they need me."

"What are you saying, John?"

"I'm saying this is a dangerous gig. If I buy the farm, then it's all gonna depend on Dean and he'd better be ready, 'cause the Demon sure as hell isn't gonna give him time to grow up."

"But how can you expect that of him? He _is_ a child, John," Pastor Jim reasoned.

"Not anymore. He can't be. I can't _let_ him be. He's a soldier now and he will do his duty," John replied with a forceful tone, a righteous voice, a determined stance to his body that warned the preacher he was not about to change his mind on this point.

---

"Dean, I don't wanna leave. Why do we always leave?"

"Sammy, Dad has work he needs to do. It's important, you know that."

"Why don't we have a home? Why don't I go to school? You said I should start school. Why can't I?"

Dean lay next to his brother on Pastor Jim's old antique bed, snuggled in under an old worn quilt, gently stroking his brother's long hair, wondering how he could explain it to him. It all seemed so basic to Dean, so clear. _Duty. Honor. Purpose._

Evil was out there, waiting to inflict terrible wrath on the innocents. Few people in this world even knew of the evil, much less had the training or courage to stand up and face it. There was a war brewing and the Winchesters were soldiers ready to do battle. It was the right thing to do, the honorable course, and it was the only thing that gave him a measure of comfort when he remembered losing his mom to that evil. Dean couldn't imagine ignoring the obvious and living a normal life. To him, that was the irrational response, the fool's choice.

"Sammy, I know it doesn't seem fair sometimes, but it's important. Dad and I are soldiers and we're at war. Can you understand that? We have to do our job or people could get hurt."

"Like Mom got hurt?"

Dean's heart clenched and his eyes once more swam in liquid pools of green, he steadied his voice as he tentatively raised up his wall, his protective shell shifting into place, trying it out for the first time. He took a deep breath before answering, still feeling the pain, but somehow successfully shielding his brother from witnessing it. "Yeah, like Mom got hurt."

"Dean? Am I a soldier?"

Dean gazed into huge, worried eyes, too young to understand all the ramifications of that statement, too young to realize the cost. "Not yet, Sammy. You can be a kid for a while, you still got time. One day, yeah, you'll be a soldier too, after you train and learn how." He ruffled the shaggy hair hanging down into the eyes of his kid brother, offering him the tender touch he longed for from his mom, taking what comfort he could from that small connection. "Get some sleep now. You're safe, I got you."

Sammy scooted down and pulled the covers up to his chin, offering his brother a sleepy grin, secure in the safety found by his big brother's side. "'Night, Dean."

"'Night, sport."

TBC


	5. Moment of Truth

Chapter Five – Moment of Truth

Morning came with the smell of breakfast drifting up to the upstairs bedroom as Dean and Sammy shook off the last imprint of sleep. A smile spread across Dean's face as he realized the preacher was making his famous pancakes.

"Sammy, Pastor Jim's making pancakes. Up and at 'em."

Sammy opened one eye, yawning and stretching lazily before bounding out of bed squealing with delight as his brother tickled him.

"I get the first one," he shouted.

"Not if I get there first."

The brothers took off running, Dean making it to the doorway first, but then Sammy _somehow _managed to overtake him as they romped down the stairs, across the living room and into the kitchen where Dad was drinking his coffee. They careened to a stop as Pastor Jim turned to greet them.

"I knew you boys wouldn't miss my pancakes. Who gets the first one?"

John smiled at their antics. "I believe I was the first one down to breakfast," he teased.

"But, Dad!" Sammy groaned, "You're not a kid. You don't count."

John looked contentedly at his sons. Seeing his children so happy and playful, such a stark contrast to their usual lives, brought a tender joy to his heart. He looked at Dean in this moment in time as a child, and decided this temporary respite could be allowed, _just this once_.

"I'm not? Huh, I guess then I'll just have to wait. How many you gonna eat? There gonna be any left for us old folk?"

"Ummm…I'm gonna eat a dozen," Sammy declared.

Dean grinned from ear to ear, delighting in this family moment, a fun, happy time he could store away with his other good memories for later, when times were not so pleasant. "Well, if you're gonna eat a dozen; I'm twice as big, so I guess I'm good for two dozen."

"Guess I better whip up some more batter then, huh, boys?" Pastor Jim laughed; pleased his house became a home whenever the boys came to visit. "Sit down and dig in. They'll keep coming as long as you keep eating. I got strawberries and blueberries and whipped cream, not that anyone here would want whipped cream."

"I do!" Sammy yelled and laughter filled their hearts, suspending the reality of the hunt and the life they'd been dealt.

"Dean, there's fresh milk in the fridge. Help yourself. You know where the glasses are."

---

"All right, boys, we need to hit the road. Jim, keep in touch."

Sammy gave the preacher a big hug and then it was Dean's turn. Dean again hesitated, before the preacher wrapped his arms around the young man and gave him a firm hug. Dean clasped his arms around the old friend, knowing this would be the last touch he could expect for the foreseeable future, besides the obvious embrace of the little squirt beside him.

"Dean, take care of yourself," Jim whispered as he gave him a pat on his back.

Dean again looked into the worried eyes of the preacher, understanding the pain there, but not wanting to be the cause of it. "No worries, Pastor Jim. I'm good, and I'm going to take care of Sammy. We'll be fine." And then he smiled his most confident, cocky grin that proclaimed to the masses that Dean Winchester had the world on a string.

Ten miles down the road, John finally spoke to his boys.

"I've got a job about two hours north of here. We'll find a motel nearby and you boys can wait it out. Shouldn't take long." John settled in for the ride, shifting down in the seat to get comfortable. "Dean, how's the wrist? You sure you don't need the pain meds?"

"Naw, I'm good." Dean puzzled for a moment before he asked the question. "You need any help on the gig?"

John looked up from the road to study his sons in the rearview mirror. Sammy was gazing out the side window, while Dean intently stared back at his dad's reflection in the mirror, serious with his offer of help. John considered his choices. No time like the present to initiate Dean into an actual hunt. _All right, son, it's time. You've earned it._

"I _could_ use some help, dude. Think you can do some research? We need to see if we can pick up on a pattern here."

Dean smiled broadly, pleased Dad trusted him enough to partner up with him, content he had finally proven himself capable. "Sure, Dad."

---

The motel was on the outskirts of town. They dumped their duffels and loaded up the mini-fridge with drinks to get cold and then headed into town and the library. John left Dean and Sammy in the basement with the microfiche scanning the local papers for abnormal activity and he headed over to the county records office to procure the actual death reports.

"Dean, what can I do?" Sammy asked.

"Sammy, just sit and read your book, all right? I gotta help Dad and look at these old newspapers," Dean stated as he sat down at the machine and started scrolling through the headlines.

First thing he noticed was all the deaths, including the first one, the patriarch's business rival, happened on a Sunday. That seemed peculiar, so he went backwards from there, checking the headlines for the previous Sundays until he came to it.

"Imagine that." He smiled. "Sammy, I think Dad's gonna be one happy hunter. Looks like I found our vengeful spirit. Now I just gotta find out where the bones are."

Sammy looked up from his book with a puzzled look, his eyes squinting and his tiny nose scrunched up. "The bones?"

"You know, the body. We just have to dig up the bones and salt and burn 'em. Then it's bye-bye, ghosty. Won't be too hard to find the bones, I just gotta check the obit." Dean continued to scroll down the microfiche until he stopped and intently read the information before him. "Here we go. St. John's cemetery, right off the old highway. Well, Sammy, as soon as Dad gets back, we can head on over to the boneyard and finish this job. This might be the fastest job Dad's ever had."

Sam offered his brother a huge, radiant grin along with the ultimate compliment. "You should work with Dad all the time, Dean."

"Damn straight!" Dean grinned, rocking back and forth in his seat, his eyes twinkling with a new spark.

Twenty minutes later, John returned to collect his sons. He carefully read over the articles Dean had copied off of the microfiche before turning to his son and offering up his highest praise.

"Good job, son. Looks like you were born for this job. Hunters with more experience might have missed that connection. I think I'm gonna be using you more and more." John offered his son a wide grin, his dimples deep and his eyes shining. "You've got that sixth sense."

Dean was bursting with pride, his grin brighter than his brother's on this particular day. "Guess it runs in the family."

"I guess it does."

Dean had never felt so much pride; so confident and in control, so sure of himself and his destiny.

Sammy then asked, "We gonna go to the barnyard now?"

Dean burst out laughing. "Boneyard, Sammy, not barnyard. Gotta wait 'til after dark. You can't exactly go digging up a grave while folks are still putting flowers on 'em. No one goes to cemeteries after dark. We don't need any witnesses for what we do."

"Boys, how about we catch some dinner, then we can head on out and torch Dean's ghost." John put his hand on Dean's shoulder, right at the juncture with his neck and gave a squeeze and Dean thought that was as nice as any hug he could receive. He had Dad's approval and he couldn't ask for more.

---

They had an early dinner and then returned to the motel for a few hours of rest before heading out to the cemetery; wanting to insure they would have the privacy required.

"Dean, will you play Go Fish with me?" Sammy looked up with those huge, expressive eyes.

_God, I hate that game. I wish I could drown all those fish, carve them up into fillets and fry 'em down good with just the right breading._

Puppy dog eyes framed by a round face gazed expectantly at him, bangs hanging in his eyes again, big freaking grin, and a look that says 'I know you can walk across the top of that pool in the courtyard of this motel without even getting your feet wet'. _Oh, hell!_

"Sure, Sammy, you deal."

John watched his sons play for a few minutes before returning to his journal and jotting down a few notations. He paused then, "Dean, how'd you follow the trail to Ben Mason?"

Dean looked up at his dad, his voice casual and matter-of-fact as he responded, "All the victims died on a Sunday and he died on a Sunday one year prior to the rival patriarch, who wasn't exactly a rival, considering _both_ families owned the factory Ben died in. If they'd had the building up to code, he probably wouldn't have died. No sprinklers made that old building a death trap. Lucky it burned on a Sunday and only killed the security guard, we'da had a hell of a lot of bones to salt and burn if it had burned during the work week."

"Good work there, son." John grinned with obvious approval. "You found the pattern."

"So those men shoulda died?" Sammy asked, trying to follow the justice of this job.

John and Dean exchanged looks; on the surface Sammy seemed to have a point, still…

John for once tried to explain, "No. The men were negligent.., _wrong;_ but we can't judge their actions. That's up to the courts. Our job is to stop the supernatural, this spirit. While some of them might be justified in their first killings, sometimes it escalates. We can't just let them go around killing people; you never know when it will stop. They might get their revenge and then be at peace or maybe not. Our job is to make sure they stay in the ground. You understand, Sammy?"

Sammy still looked a little confused, but he answered in the affirmative. "I guess."

"Don't fret about it, Sammy. Dad and I know what we're doing. Don't worry, bro…we've got it covered."

John again smiled at how mature Dean was acting, how confident he seemed. _Jim is dead wrong about this. Dean is a hunter, he's proven it. He was born to do this job._

---

Sammy slept in the car nearby while John and Dean dug up the grave and prepared to torch the remains. Dean with his cast on was unable to help with the actual grave digging, so John assigned him the task of laying out the necessary ingredients for this barbecue. John waited for the day when his boys were grown to where he could just stand by and let them do the manual labor. Digging up bodies wasn't high on his list of favorite tasks, he'd dug his fair share of graves in the past; he reckoned his sons would need the experience soon enough.

After a few hours of digging, John reached the casket and was grateful from the looks of things that poor Ben had a pauper's funeral with just a cheap pine box. Some of the new sealed coffins were damn hard to break open, forcing them to resort to a shotgun blast or two to expose the bodies. He easily broke open this casket revealing a body in the ground for just over a year. Not a pretty sight. Recent bones were always a little harder to deal with than bones that were just that, bones.

Dean gasped at the condition of the body revealed within the casket, the effects of dying in the fire and the lack of embalming, leaving a ripe and rotting corpse.

"Dean, you all right? I know, it's pretty gruesome, but trust me, it gets easier."

"I'm good. Just not what I was expecting. Heck, I've seen worse in science class." Dean lied to his dad for the second time in his life. _Better not make a habit of that, Winchester. Dad has a sixth sense about lying._

John climbed out of the grave and stood to the side as Dean proceeded to finish the job under his supervision. "Pour on the salt, that's good. Now the gasoline. _What the hell?"_

Dean looked back to see his dad thrown down onto the grass, the spirit on top of him choking him as his dad struggled to fight back. Panic gripped Dean as he reached for the shotgun filled with rock salt. He aimed the gun but was fearful he would also hit his dad, unable to get a clear shot at just the ghost. He dropped the shotgun and turned back to the grave, picking up the gallon can of gasoline and hurriedly pouring it over the corpse, then grabbing the box of matches, striking a match and tossing it into the open grave. Flames shot up as the body was incinerated. He turned back to witness the ghost disappear from over his dad.

John laid there on the ground for a moment, watching his older son standing tall beside the flames that were lapping up from the open grave. He climbed back to his feet, knocking the dirt from his jeans as he shook off the near miss. "Thanks, son. Good job sending your first spirit back to the afterlife."

"Dad, you all right?" Dean anxiously asked.

"Yeah…." And John smiled, his dimples carving pits into his cheeks as his eyes sparkled. "I think we're going to be just fine," John replied. He walked over to his son and gave him a sideways hug, just a guy thing, arm wrapped tight around his son's shoulders. Two men finishing up a job and sharing a moment to savor a job well done. Dean wished he was old enough to share some beers with his dad. _Maybe I'll have to start working on that one!_

---

Dean slept the best he had in a long time that night, fresh off his victory. For once the nightmare of his deer hunt didn't haunt him. He had succeeded in burying it in that dark place of his heart alongside the nightmares from when his mom died. He had conquered his fear, constructed his wall and hidden his hurts. He was sure he was on the right track with this. _I'm never gonna have doubts again. I am a hunter and I am capable._

His newfound confidence lasted three days.

They were headed toward Arizona when he again faced his worst fears. It was going to be an all-night drive and John pulled into the quickie mart and drove up to the gas pump to fill up the Impala's empty tank.

"Dean, take you brother to the restroom."

"Yes, sir. Come on, Sammy, wake up. Pit stop." Dean jostled the shoulder of his sleeping brother, urging him awake.

"Huh? Are we there yet?" Sammy sleepily muttered, still lingering between sleep and consciousness.

"No, not yet. Come on, big guy, I'm not carrying you."

Defiantly, Sammy answered as he opened his eyes, "I'm a big boy, I can walk."

"Let's see it then." Dean smiled as Sammy stirred, wiping the sleep from his eyes with the fists of his hands.

Dean guided his brother as he swayed a little, still not quite awake. They were almost to the door when a tall, heavy set man knocked into Dean as he moved past them, entering the mart and letting the swinging door slam back right into the young boys' faces. Dean caught the door just before it could knock Sammy over.

"Stupid bastard!" he muttered.

The restroom was occupied so they waited in the hallway by the door. Their second encounter with the tall, rude man didn't bode any better as he exited the restroom, again almost knocking them over in his haste and disregard for the boys.

"Sammy, you okay?"

"What's wrong with him, Dean?"

"Some people are just jerks. Ignore him." Dean held the door open for his brother, his anger and frustration with the man seething just beneath the surface as he focused on his brother. "Come on, you go first."

After they used the restroom, Dean let Sammy wander the aisles of the store. The younger boy stopped by the candy bars and looked longingly at a Butterfingers bar.

Dean immediately focused on what drew his brother's interest. "You want some candy, Sammy?"

"How much it cost?"

Dean tapped the barcode label beneath the candy. "See, it says right here, can you read it?"

Squinting and leaning forward, Sam proudly proclaimed, "Forty-nine." He looked up with quizzical eyes. "Is that a lot?"

"Naw, you want it?"

"Can I?"

"Sure, no problem."

Dean dug into the depths of his jean's pockets, pulling out a quarter and two dimes. He tried to remember if this was one of the states that charged tax on food as he reached into his jacket pocket, forgetting about the right pocket that had a hole in the bottom.

Sammy was anxiously watching and waiting. "Do we need to ask Dad?"

"No, I've got it. Just gotta find it, Sammy." He smiled victoriously as he retrieved a nickel. "There ya go." He turned his attention to the clerk. "Hey, mister, you charge tax on food?"

Looking up from the magazine he was reading at the counter the clerk replied, "No tax on food."

"Here you go then, Sammy. Give the man the candy bar and then the money. Can you do that?"

"What about you, Dean, don't you want something?"

"Naw, I'm good."

Sammy grinned that big starlight smile, the one that could light up the darkest night and that was all Dean needed.

John entered the mart then, having filled up the tank on the Impala.

"You boys go on out. I've gotta pay for the gas and take a leak, then I'll be out."

The boys started across the lot, over to where the Impala was parked next to the pump. Another car had pulled in after them and Dean stopped cold when he saw it. Strapped across the old Cadillac's trunk was a deer, the bullet wound to the heart still seeping dark red blood, almost black. Sammy ran to the deer and gently touched its hide.

"Dean, is it dead?" Tears were starting to well in his eyes, never having been this close to death, never before witnessing it first-hand.

With a lump in his throat, Dean replied, "Yeah, Sammy."

"Why? What'd it do? Why'd they hurt it?" Sammy was softly petting the side of the deer, the pain and confusion in his voice searing through Dean's gut.

"Hey, kid, stop touching the merchandise," a gruff, loud voice called out.

Dean turned and was face to stomach with the rude man from the restroom.

"Come on, Sammy." He tried to grab Sam's hand and lead him away, but Sammy had other ideas.

"You're a mean man."

"Oh, yeah? Well you're a stupid fucking brat."

"Don't you talk to my brother like that!" Dean shouted, moving beside his little brother, his hand outstretched protectively on his shoulder.

"Or what?"

With cold determination the boy answered, "Or I'll have to teach you some manners."

Growling out his response, the man seemed to grow even taller. "Kid, I could squash you with one fist."

"Leave him alone, you bastard!" Sammy yelled as he took a step toward him.

"You got a foul mouth there, kid. Someone ought to teach you some manners."

And then the man grabbed hold of Sammy and shook him before tossing him away from his car and the deer. Sammy stumbled and fell backward against the hood of the Impala as Dean came rushing to his side.

"Sammy, you hurt?"

"He's mean, Dean." And then Sammy started to full out cry.

"Quit bawling, you little bastard," the man spat out.

Dean turned cold as the frigid, snow-capped peaks of the mountain. He turned to the man with pure hate in his eyes as he spoke. "You son of a bitch, you better stay the hell away from my brother or I'm gonna make you pay."

Fury was in the man's eyes as his hand whipped out and broadsided Dean's face. Dean staggered from the impact as blood pooled in his mouth.

"Shut your mouth, you little shit. What the hell you gonna do to me?" he taunted. "Get the hell away from me, kid."

Dean stood tall, not backing down from this man at all, which only aggravated the man more. He quickly came back with another hard blow against Dean's jaw, knocking him back three steps and then to the ground. Satisfied that he had taught these boys a lesson, he turned back and started to fuel his car.

Dean knelt on the ground, his right hand braced on the pavement, trying to shake the dizziness that rang through his head. He slowly returned to his feet and only momentarily staggered as he reached out to steady himself against the fender of the Impala. This brute was huge and imposing and he knew firsthand he was ruthless and cruel, a frightful foe. His heart hammered in his chest and he felt the terror growing, he had to protect Sammy, he had to be strong.

_Remember that, Winchester - fear can make you stronger, as long as you don't let it control you, make you hesitate. Use it, use the adrenaline, use the panic. Control it, wield it like a weapon._

A new calm enveloped him and he knew he could master his fear, he just needed to focus; he had a job to do. With hunter determination, he reached for the door of the Impala, climbed in across the seat and pulled the loaded Ruger from the glove box. His hand was shaking, but his determination was controlling his actions. He purposely walked to the front of the car and held up the gun with a two handed grip as best he could with the cast on, locked his arms and leveled it straight at the man's broad chest. At that close range and with a target that wide, even a little shake to his aim wouldn't stop the bullet from being deadly, Dean was sure of that.

"_Damn_. Kid, just put the gun down before it goes off. You don't want to do this."

"Wanna bet?" Steely, distant look to his eyes, his words cold and stark. "Apologize to my brother."

"Like Hell. He needs to learn some manners." This guy was now officially a stupid son of a bitch, not yet believing how deep he was immersed in danger, how deadly this boy before him could be, how he was standing on the very brink of oblivion.

"I said, _apologize!"_

"Sorry."

"I'm not feeling it. Say it like you mean it or I swear to God.…"

"_Sorry, kid_."

John was placing his fraudulent credit card back in his wallet as he walked toward the front door, and just as his hand reached out to open the door, he spotted the altercation in the lot by the Impala. _Holy crap!_

He pushed past the couple trying to enter and ran full out across the lot, careening past the other cars, rounding the last row of pumps, almost reaching his sons, before he heard the shot. His heart was beating out of his chest as he stood gasping at the scene unfurled before him. Dean was standing there with the gun still in his hands, a shattered look in his eyes, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. Sammy was crying and screaming his brother's name. John took in the situation and did the only thing a father could, he grabbed up Sammy and threw him in the back seat while simultaneously yelling at Dean.

"Dean, get in the car. _Now!"_

Dean hesitated only a moment before pulling open the door to the back seat and climbing in. John jumped into the front and started the mighty engine. He peeled out of the quickie mart and headed down the highway, hoping he could make the interstate before the cops arrived. In that moment, he cursed driving such a recognizable car, hoping that at that hour of the night there would be few witnesses and further hoping they would demonstrate the standard lack of willingness to get involved.

"Dean, what happened?"

"He hurt Sammy."

And John knew that was all it would take. Dean had obviously taken at least one punch, if not more. _Damn, I'd have killed that son of a bitch myself for touching my son,_ _but that hadn't precipitated the shot. No.., Dean was protecting Sammy…just like I trained him._

John looked at his older son's face in the rearview mirror. The strong, determined jut of his jaw in sharp contrast to the lost, empty look of his expressive eyes as he sat soldier rigidly, with his right arm wrapped protectively around his still sobbing brother. John hoped to god Pastor Jim wasn't right, that Dean wasn't as sensitive as he thought, 'cause he sure as hell needed to be strong now. Dean would protect Sammy to the death; that was now painfully evident.

_Maybe I have pushed him too hard, maybe he is too young to know how far to go, to know the boundaries; the right and wrong of it. Damn it all, this isn't his fault, it's mine. Maybe I do need to give him just a little more time…._

"We better hole up somewhere; we're too exposed out here on the highway."

TBC

_Next chapter is the final one with Dean and Sam as men, set sometime during Season One. What will Sam find out about his brother's life as a child? _

_Reviews would be really nice… I really appreciate those of you who have been reviewing._

_Sorry it is taking me so long between updates, my new job at work is kicking my butt and consuming all my spare time and energy._

_Thanks for reading, B.J._


	6. Reflections on a Long Ago Time

Chapter Six – Reflections on a Long Ago Time

"You almost bought the farm there. You'da been dust without me."

"I had it covered." A confident, exasperated tone resonated in Dean's voice. "You know I do have a few years' experience hunting these evil sons of bitches. Not to mention those extra years while you played Joe College."

"Yeah? Well, you looked a little rusty there, Rambo."

"Whatever, dude."

"I'm just saying, good thing you had backup."

"So, you're glad I hauled your ass out of Wussy U?"

Sam looked at his brother with amusement, glad he had been there this time to save him from injury _or worse_. Thankful his brother was alive and well and still could be relied upon to be that habitual pain in the butt. Remembering all the times Dean had saved him and grateful he could return the favor.

"You do make life more stimulating," Sam relented.

"Stimulating, huh? Guess that means I got the old blood flowing," Dean replied, smugly pleased with himself and the adventures he was showing his wayward brother, thankful Sam had not forgotten all his training in his years away from the fight.

"Quiet is nice, too, you know. Maybe we slow it down and enjoy the season for once."

"What? You lookin' to go all Merry and Ho-Ho-Ho-ing?" Deliberate pause for effect. "Hey, I wonder if Santa knows all the definitions of Ho?" Wicked grin now, followed by smacking lips, as he considered those cute little Santa's helpers that always populated the malls at this time of the year.

"Might have known you could debase even Santa."

"What? Me?" Mock, offended posturing topped off with a sly grin.

_Yeah, like I believe you're offended. _"Never mind."

Dean gave his brother one of his most radiant smiles, his dimples fixed while his eyes glimmered with a strange mix of mischief and contentment, fully enjoying this exchange. "Hungry?"

"Starved."

"Yeah, nothing like a little righteous slaying to wake up the old taste buds. All righty then, here we go." Dean pulled off the highway into the dirt parking lot at Ma's Diner, a rustic structure perched to the side of the old highway, long forgotten when the interstate took all the traffic away and now surviving on the locals and adventurous tourists who sought out the country lifestyle.

"Looks like we found us some down-home cooking," Dean cheerfully announced.

"It's got to be better than the fast food joints or microwaving that garbage at the quickie mart," Sam agreed.

Dean drove past a fair share of cars parked outside the establishment. "Looks like the locals like it." He parked off to the side of the diner and jumped out.

As the brothers walked up to the entrance, Dean's attention was diverted by an early model white Cadillac, maybe a '74, parked up by the old highway and illuminated by the only street light for a mile. A deer carcass was roped down across the trunk, the blood of the animal still seeping out and running dark against the hide. A familiar sight, too familiar. How long had it been? Another lifetime, perhaps?

Sam stopped walking when he discovered he had lost his brother. He turned and noticed the Caddy for the first time, also struck by the familiarity, but not quite remembering. His brother was standing next to the deer, an eerie calm to the scene, a pensive look partially obscured by the shadows falling across his face.

"Dean…what is it?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing."

Sam felt an edge to his brother now, a noticeable hitch in his voice as he responded to his inquiry.

"Dean, what_ is it?"_ he repeated, more insistent in his tone as he stood beside his brother.

"It's just…. Never mind, let's get some food." He turned to walk away then, and Sam remembered.

_What do I remember? It's all so fuzzy, Dean was upset, mad. Who was he mad at? What happened? He was young, I was just…a kid. What? Five years old? Six, max. I was crying, I was so scared.…_

"Dean, _what is it?_ Please…_tell me_."

Anger erupted in Dean, his voice rough, on the brittle edge of something fierce. "I told you, Sam, _it's nothing_. I'm hungry. _Let's go!"_

And so the conversation ended before it had even begun. Dean had a habit of shutting Sam down whenever the past was too painful. _But what was painful about this? What the hell happened all those years ago? Why can't I remember? Why don't I want to remember?_

Dean picked up his pace and burst through the door of the diner, quickly scoping out a secluded booth in the back. The waitress nodded to him as if to say, "Take your pick," so he proceeded down to the booth and settled in. She sauntered over with menus and a coffee pot to fill their cups, offering up the standard pleasantries and informing them she would be back in a few for their order. Dean immediately picked up the menu and started reading, immersed in the text like it would decipher the mysteries of the unknown.

"All righty, then. Hmm, hot roast beef sandwich. Remember when Dad used to make us get that?" His eyes lost focus as they drifted off, circling the memory, reflecting on a life light-years away from here and now. "Said it was better than a cheeseburger and fries. Whenever we went to a real sit down place he wanted us to get something more _nutritious._" Dean chuckled at the thought. "Like he was ever the healthy eater." His mood was noticeably lighter…still it appeared somewhat forced. He seemed half amused by the memory, looking back at those times with a melancholy fondness.

"Don't you like getting it again sometimes?" Sam asked. "You know, for old times' sake? Kinda like comfort food."

"Comfort food?" Dean shot back with a heavy dose of doubt. He continued on with more amazement, "Are you _nuts?"_

"I don't know, yeah…_maybe_.., but sometimes it brings back good memories."

"I thought you didn't have any good memories from those days. _Remember,_ you hated the life." Dean's tone was bitter and unyielding, the stern tilt of his face revealing his annoyance. His eyes were almost accusing, his entire presence throbbing with an underlying tension.

Defensively Sam replied, "Yeah, I hated the life…but I didn't hate my family. And I didn't _always_ hate being out on the road, at least not at first." Sam tensed, pressed by his brother and suddenly unsure what he meant, where exactly they'd veered off course. In the span of a few comments they'd left the safety of a pleasant talk and barreled into this landmine filled quagmire that seemed poised to swallow his brother in painful memories.

Dean stared straight ahead. "Really? Coulda fooled me."

"Dean, c'mon, man. You don't really think that, do you?"

"I don't know, _maybe_." Dean's eyes were shifting from his brother's intent gaze, nervously searching out something less intrusive to focus on. "Hard to know what was going through your warped brain back then. I mean, you were always fighting with Dad, griping about moving around…just generally a pain in the ass."

Sam now noticed a real hurt in Dean's voice and he suddenly felt the urge to comfort him, not understanding the whys and what for's, just wanting to ease his pain somehow. He offered a slight smile, his tone more tender, trying to weave his way back into the good grace of his brother. "I always liked tagging along after _you_. Always wanted to be around my big brother."

Finally, a smile again, hesitant but real. "You _were_ a nuisance sometimes. But…you know…not _too_ bad." Dean gave him a slight smirk, a turn of his head as he bowed it down before rising back up with a larger smile embracing his face, the good memories regaining tentative control.

Sam grinned at the obvious difficulty Dean had in admitting that. Thinking back they did share some good times; they were just typically overshadowed by the bad, or maybe he had simply _allowed _the bad times too much influence. Suddenly he had an overwhelming desire to know more about his brother, to examine all those other lives hidden behind the bold facade. "Dean, what's the best memory you have from when we were kids?"

Dean was again reading the menu, distracted, trying to decide what he was going to order. Sam thought he hadn't heard him until he opened his mouth and started to speak, in slow, deliberate words, words straight from the heart, a memory from the deepest part of his soul.

"I remember you crawling into my bed every night and me reading you a story."

Sam started to laugh, sure Dean was pulling his leg, until the look on Dean's face informed him he was deadly serious, a serene, contented look.

"Huh…that's your _best_ memory?" he asked in wonder.

"Yep, that's it." Slight smile, his eyes opening up then and offering a glimpse into his soul, the cocky façade momentarily slipping away revealing an honest answer, no clever comeback or smartass cover-up, just the simple, unadorned truth.

The conversation was interrupted as the waitress came back for their order. Dean ordered the rib eye steak and baked potato loaded with sour cream and bacon bits, and Sam opted for the hot roast beef sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy, figuring he might as well fully immerse himself in the memories of that time.

Once the waitress took the menus, Dean was left with nothing to occupy his attention or hide behind. He suddenly seemed uncomfortable, shifting in the booth, suffering from a strange vulnerability as he nervously avoided Sam's attentive stare. When the intrusion got to be too much he irritably exclaimed, "_What?_ Dude, you are freaking me out with the staring."

"I just woulda thought…" Sam started.

"What?" Dean tensed, his annoyance spilling into his words. "Just spit it out."

Sam huffed out a sigh of exasperation, his irritation with his brother only surpassed by his concern. "I just would have thought you'd say your first hunt, your first kill, or that time you saved Dad from the poltergeist and was the big hero." Sam shook his head, a tremulous grin trying to break free. "You just surprised me."

Any trace of a smile quickly left Dean's face; an angry scowl emerging. "We're talking _family_ here, Sam, not the job. There's a difference, or didn't you ever get that?"

Realization flashed on Sam's face, a slight rise of his eyebrows as his brother's words struck a familiar, but forgotten chord. "I guess not. I guess I never really separated it out like that. I just, you know…"

"Yeah, you hated the job and you hated your family," Dean curtly replied before staring off again across the diner, searching out something of interest to focus his attention on.

"Dean, I never hated _you_."

Silence again as Dean processed the thought, before he softly whispered, "Yeah, but you could have."

"What?" Sam blurted out, his eyes wide and his face frozen in disbelief. "What the hell does that mean?"

"_Nothin'._ Forget about it."

"Forget about it? _No. _You don't get to drop a bombshell like that and then just tell me to forget about it." Sam reeled himself back, taking a deep breath and allowing his concern to mellow out his harsh comeback. He leaned forward on the table, his eyes connecting with his brother as he gently asked, "Dean, what's going on with you?"

Sam was now truly worried about this whole share and care conversation. Dean had started to open up to him in this backwoods diner of all places, hinting at what was bothering him before again closing down. _What the hell is going on with him? _

Dean started to speak, hesitating briefly before continuing in a soft, small voice, so different from how he normally sounded. "You know, my first hunt wasn't exactly something to celebrate."

"No?" Sam softly whispered, waiting for more, and trying hard not to break the spell that had suddenly moved his brother to share a piece of himself.

Dean again offered up a half-hearted smile, a nervous attempt at avoiding the emotions of his words, but his eyes betrayed him, the barest trace of moisture collecting in deep pools of green. "No, Sammy."

Just a plain statement of fact, yet Sam felt the undertone, something left unsaid. _I mean, you can't just leave it at that, big brother. _"What, Dean?" He kept his voice low and reassuring. "What happened?"

A slow sigh, then Dean expelled a ragged breath before answering, "I learned to make the first shot count."

"What does that _mean?_ Dean, _tell me_. What happened, I don't really remember."

Another long pause, as Dean glanced around them at the empty booths, insuring no one was within earshot; hesitant enough to let Sam into his hidden world, knowing he couldn't bear to let anyone else witness his pain. It seemed like Dean wanted to talk, had been holding this story in for so long it just needed to be told; yet he still seemed buried within the memory, not knowing how to extricate himself from this hole and let it out. He looked into his brother's eyes then and nervously started to speak.

"Well, _yeah_, you wouldn't. You were only six."

"Then you were _ten?" _Sam's voice couldn't restrain the incredulous inflection. "_Ten years old?_ What was Dad thinking?" Obvious disapproving tone, disgust for the way they were raised once more rising up.

"Not his fault," Dean quickly defended. "I was on his case for months to let me on a hunt." He captured his brother's eyes with his firm tone. "It was _my _decision."

Aside from the obvious, _that a ten-year-old can't be held responsible for decisions made that should have never been allowed,_ Sam knew there was more to this story; some underlying hurt Dean wanted to expose, but was still unsure of how to go about doing it, still uncertain if he could trust his brother with his hidden secrets. _Scared to lower that wall and reveal his pain._

"What happened, Dean?" Sam took a moment to still his own heart, to steady himself as he tried to reach his brother. He decided to start at the beginning, keep it simple until Dean could move the conversation into where he needed it to go. "What did you hunt?" Sam waited, knowing Dean had brought up this topic and something was loosening his tongue, obviously he wanted to tell the tale; he just needed the time and space to tell it at his own pace.

Dean was staring out the window, distracted again by that Caddy parked out under the street light. _Remembering…._

"It was a deer…just a deer…" He paused, drawing in a deep breath and expelling it with a gentle sigh, his eyes filling with emotion as he continued, "But, _man_, to watch it die like that…. Never in my life have I seen something struggle so hard to live when there was no hope, no chance."

"I don't remember. Wait…that's it," Sam added, his mind going back over years of memories, stopping at a pivotal moment, the hazy time starting to take shape. "I remember seeing a car in the parking lot with a deer strapped to it and I started to cry. I called the man a bad word, and you…"

"He told you to shut up and quit bawling," Dean interrupted, the words flowing out of him as if some huge barrier had been knocked down. "He grabbed you and shook you." The look in Dean's eyes was heartbreaking as he remember that time; how small and insignificant he had felt going toe to toe with that six-foot monster bullying his kid brother. "I told him to get his damn hands off you or I was going to make him pay."

"What'd he say to that?" Sam whispered.

Dean was again staring out the window, lost in a faraway memory, an unpleasant time, a _crossroad _in his life. "Say? He didn't say anything…." Dean turned and looked directly into Sam's eyes, probing to see if there was understanding there, if he could trust him with this secret, so long buried and now fighting its way back to the surface; no longer willing to suppress his feelings, wanting to finally be free of their burden. One more quick breath before he continued, "He hit me. Hard, right across the mouth."

"_What?_" Sam gasped. "Dean, what did you do?"

Dean again seemed unsure, uncertain if he truly wanted to revisit these feelings, if he could bear to remember that time. He was wavering, still scared Sam wouldn't understand, that he couldn't _make_ him understand. So scared to let it out, but tired of holding it in.

"Dean? What happened?"

_Oh, hell, you know this is never gonna leave you alone. Sam will never leave you alone, just let it out. To hell with it. _Dean fixed his gaze upon his brother and solemnly spoke, all emotion locked down tight. "I grabbed the Ruger out of the glove box and shoved it in his face."

"You pulled a gun on the man?"

"He was an asshole, he deserved what he got."

Sam was getting scared now, the look in Dean's eyes distant and unreadable. His brother actually scared him on rare occasions like this, when his fury sometimes overshadowed rational thought. He knew if Dean was protecting his family, anything was possible._ What did Dean do all those years ago? Why can't I remember? Why don't I want to remember?_

"Dean, what happened? What did you do?"

"What do you think I did?" Dean stared directly into his brother's eyes, trying to determine just who Sam saw sitting across from him, what he thought he was capable of, if he had any clue how far he would go for him. "You think I killed him?"

"I don't know, I…" Sam trembled from the thoughts racing through his head, the image before him so familiar and yet so scarily unknown; his brother almost daring him to think the worst. "Dean, you're scaring me."

Dean's eyes were misting up, tears ready to fall, but he was stubbornly holding them back, determined to be brave. All the memories assaulting him at once, overwhelming his resolve and taking him back to that young age when he struggled so hard to hold it all together and be brave.

_Baby, it's all right to cry. You are_ _my brave son, but you're safe now. You need to let the pain out, you need to release the hurt._

His eyes darted around the diner, trying to find some compelling distraction to sway his attention, trying to still the voice in his head. _I try to be brave, Mom, I try. I'm just so tired of being strong, I'm just so tired…. _One lone tear broke free and rolled down his cheek, his hand quickly wiping it away.

"Please, Dean. Whatever happened, it's all right. I know you were just protecting me."

Dean drew in another deep breath, a hesitant grin trying to break free, a last attempt to hide his feelings. "Yeah, well, I didn't kill him." Nervous laughter then, eyes still searching, _needing_…desperate to be rid of this pain. "Wanted to, but didn't." Dean coughed out an anxious gasp as he shifted in his seat. "I hated him, you know? But not enough to kill him. Didn't have it in me back then."

Sam didn't like the qualifier on that statement. _'Back then.'_ _I mean, Dean is hardly a boy scout, but he's not a killer. He would never kill over rough treatment or a slap. What we kill is evil, it deserves to die, anyone would testify to that. That's all very different than this. I mean, Dean would never…._

"You know what's funny?" Dean continued, almost as if once he started he couldn't hold back any longer, suddenly not _wanting_ to hold back.

"No, what?"

"I _wanted _to kill him for treating you like that. I wanted to make him pay. You know why I didn't? You know why I didn't have the stomach for it?"

"No, Dean. Why?"

"That damn deer."

"From your hunt?"

"Yeah." A look of resignation, then slowly realization flickered across his face.

"Dean, what happened to the deer?"

"Took two shots. First one only wounded it and the damn thing just thrashed around on the rocks, stumbling and gasping and fighting with all its strength, but it was dying. I knew it, Dad knew it, the only thing was…the damn deer refused to accept it. Just kept fighting until if finally broke its own goddamn leg and _still_ it tried to live." Dean seemed to dissolve before his brother's eyes, all his feelings hidden for so long seeping out. Those expressive eyes of his opening up, all his pain swimming in a sea of green; his face a canvas detailing all his hurts, each one wearing upon his youth and forever marking him. "To see it struggle like that…it just.... Man, worst sight I'd ever witnessed."

"Dean. I'm sorry." Sam's voice broke, his face mirroring his brother's, his bottom lip quivering as he tried to stay strong. "Why didn't you ever tell me about this? I could've been there for you." He sucked in a deep breath, his gut tensing as he broached the subject, "Did Dad ever say anything?"

"Yeah, right! Never talked about this with anyone, Sam. Not once." Dean again shifted in his seat, uncomfortable in his skin and being put on display like this. He again tried to cover with a shaky grin. "I mean, come on, we're Winchesters, you do the job and you shut up about it."

"But, Dean, you were just a kid."

"No, Sam," he snapped, "I was a hunter, a soldier." That familiar look was back, the firm, tough stance he'd adopted as a child. His words the same words he'd spoken countless times before, his training trying to rescue him from his candor. "You said it yourself, we were raised to be warriors."

"Dean…" Sam started, immediately drawn in by the look on his brother's face, the slow dissolve as the warrior was overcome by the boy's emotions. Tenderly he tried to reach him, "Dean, you didn't _mean_ for the deer to suffer like that."

Despite his determination the hurt continued to consume the features of his face, his eyes revealing years of pain and guilt and regret as he stated the truth as he saw it, "Doesn't matter, the fact is it _did_ suffer and I was the cause."

"But you were just a kid, it wasn't your fault." Sam's voice edged toward defiance, old battles re-emerging as he fought for his brother. "Dad should have never let you go on a hunt at that age."

"Water under the bridge, Sam," Dean dismissively stated.

Sam hesitated, unsure how hard to push, "Dean…what else?"

Surprise registered on Dean's face as he looked up into his brother's eyes. "What?" He forced out a smile, the mirror image of the cocky grin he always brought out when the going got tough. "That's not enough for ya, Sammy?"

"I don't know, it just seems like there's more. Is there?"

"Can't fool you, huh, little brother?" Hesitant smile, trying to cover, trying to.…

"Dean, you've come this far. _Please_, tell me."

"Can't, Sammy."

"Why? Why _can't_ you? Please, Dean, you can trust me." Sensitive puppy dog eyes were pleading, begging for the chance to share whatever pain his brother was feeling. Softly he asked one more time, "Please, tell me."

"Trust you, huh?" Nervous laughter again, his next words hinging on a lack of belief and that hurt Sam, more than a harsh word would. "Yeah, right."

Sam's frustration was growing, bordering on anger as his brother refused to just tell him. He wasn't angry with Dean, he was angry with their lives, their screwed-up childhoods and how it still affected his big brother, wondering what else could have possibly happened to push Dean to this point. "What does that _mean?_ You _can_ trust me. What have we been doing this last year if not building trust? I'm your brother, man."

Dean's eyes fixed on him. "That's why I can't."

"What? You're not making sense." Sam was struggling here, trying to dig his brother out from under whatever he was feeling…trying to get through to him. "Dean, what is it?"

_Oh, hell! He's a pit bull when he gets his mind wrapped around something. I should have known not to start this. He's never going to stop pushing until he knows._

Dean straightened up to his full height in the booth, soldier rigid, his jaw set and determined, eyes locked on his brother.

Sam waited, knowing it was finally coming and hoping he wouldn't be thrown by it, hoping he could be there for his brother. _Dammit, what is it, Dean?_

Dean took in a deep breath and then the floodgates opened and the truth held so tightly through the years spilled out. "My biggest fear was you'd find out what I'd done…that I'd killed Bambi. Then when you saw that deer and went off on that hunter, I _knew_ I was right. I knew for sure that if you ever found out, you'd hate me."

"No, _never_."

"Yeah, Sammy, you would have…and I _knew_ it. It scared the crap outta me that you'd find out what I'd done." His voice turned almost fragile as he took a step back in time. "You were six years old, everything was black and white, no shades of gray."

"But Dean, I was just a kid. I didn't know any better."

"Yeah, well.…"

Sam took a deep breath, his eyes focused on his brother as he tried to bridge the distance, tried to find a way to let Dean see himself through his eyes, the eyes of a child who'd always worshiped his big brother, the eyes of a man who still did. "Dean, I idolized you. I thought you could do no wrong."

Dean stared at the silverware, his hand absently fingering the dinner knife, his finger gently running along the blade until he succeeded in drawing out a thin line of red on his thumb, trying with all his might to withdraw from the world and this conversation, wondering how he'd ever been sucked into this vacuum. Sam's eyes were a constant on him and he felt them boring a hole through his skin, probing ever deeper, demanding answers, answers he no longer cared to examine.

When it appeared no distraction was going to avert Sam's attention, Dean relented and exposed the wound; hoping time had lessened the pain. Praying the consequences would not be what he had always feared. Tired of the unbearable suspense, ready to face the inevitable and finally be free of this secret.

"See, Sammy, _that_ was the problem. You always thought I could do no wrong, but _you were wrong_. I wasn't perfect, and it terrified me that you would wake up one day and realize it. That you'd see the real me for once and turn away."

"Dean, why would you think that?" A voice steady and sure tried to reassure as he stated the facts as he knew them, "I'd _never_ turn away from you. You should know that."

Dean looked up at Sam with pain in his eyes. "Yeah, right…."

"Dean, why would you say that? Why would you think that? Please, tell me."

Dean's pain was consuming every feature on his face, every fear he had buried as a child rising to the surface, no longer refusing to be denied. He took in a deep breath and slowly released it, dreading the words as he finally revealed the truth.

"You turned on Dad."

"What?"

"You always judged Dad, you always…" he choked down a tense breath before he continued, "You turned against Dad when he didn't live up to your expectations." Dean gave a small shirk of his head, that hesitant scared grin again twisting his mouth into a fake smile. He gave one last shrug. "Why would I have been any different?"

"But Dean, I wouldn't turn away from _you,_ Dad was _different_…." Only now Sam saw it wasn't different, not to a child. It _was_ the same, it was family. And then all the pieces of the puzzle came tumbling down and formed a perfect picture, an undeniable portrait of Dean, shaped in the image of Dad.

_Why didn't I see it before? Dean's looks may have come from Mom, but Dad was his role model. The parent he had to mold himself after, the man he spent his life emulating; from the hunter attitude to the worn leather jacket to his love of the Impala and countless other similarities, Dean identified with Dad. When I attacked Dad, Dean felt I was attacking him._

Dean continued on, his words honest and brutal, finally revealing his fear, "Yeah, you would have and I knew it. I _always_ knew it. You know…I was just a kid, too, you just never saw it."

"Dean, I'm sorry. I never knew."

Dean casually shrugged his shoulders, trying to dismiss the weight still there. "Yeah, well, now you do. No biggie. Wonder when our food's coming, I'm starving here."

As if on cue, the waitress returned with their food. She placed their plates on the table, reminding them they were hot before checking the order one last time. She then placed the bill in the center of the table and left with a smile.

"Looks good, dig in." Dean at last had something neutral to occupy his mind and he embraced the chance to abandon this conversation.

Sam silently picked up his fork and poked at his food, considering his next course of action. _What words would comfort his brother now?_

Dean had never in his life taken this long to clean his plate. It was almost like he knew the minute he was done and no longer had a focus other than their conversation he would be thrust back into the thick of it. Sam had finished his food and was patiently waiting him out. _Not gonna work this time, Dean. We are finishing this and I don't care how long you stall._

Dean finally swallowed the last bite and pushed his plate to the side of the table. He reached for the bill then. "All right, we better get back on the road if we're gonna make Pittsburgh by morning."

"Not so fast, Dean. We need to talk."

"No, Sam, we are _done_ talking."

"Not hardly, big brother."

Dean anxiously looked around the diner. A new couple had recently sat down in a booth just feet from them. The privacy they had previously enjoyed was now gone.

"Not here. Outside," Dean growled as he gave his brother a firm, _no arguments_ look before rising from the booth, grabbing the bill and proceeding to the cashier by the front door.

Sam silently followed, allowing his brother this temporary respite, just until they were outside, determined to finish their talk and resolve this.

Once outside, with only the stillness of the night to disturb them, Sam again pursued the truth. "Dean, we are talking about this, _now_."

"So what exactly do you want to talk about?" Dean spat back, his anger barely contained.

"Why you're still worried about me hating you, turning away from you."

"Sam, just leave it alone."

"No."

"Trust me, you don't want to know." Dean again spoke with nervous laughter; still trying to hide the pain he felt, the pain that consumed him.

"Yes, I do," Sam adamantly replied. "Tell me."

"Sam, you don't live in the real world. You've always been protected. Keep it that way. Just let it be."

"No, _tell me_. If something is wrong, I want to know," Sam stubbornly insisted.

"Yeah, you want to know." Dean shook his head, hundreds of thoughts and fears running through his mind. "Trust me, you don't. Just leave it."

"Damn it, Dean, I am not a kid anymore. _Tell me!"_

The weight of the years combining with the relentless probing of his brother finally wore the tentative resolve of Dean down to his breaking point, the point of no return. Weary of the secrets and fears that had buried him within his grief all these years, he was finally ready to just be free of them, once and for all.

"Okay, you want to know? Think about it real hard, Sammy, 'cause there's no turning back once it's said." The look in Dean's eyes and the tone of his voice all screamed out in anger. Years of pent up emotion coming to a boil, a dangerous crescendo. "We can get in the car right now and never bring this up again. If I were you, that's the door I'd pick."

Sam returned the anger, the tension breaking his resolve to maintain his calm. "No, you started this, finish it, dammit!"

"Think about it, Sammy, you don't mean that."

"Yes, I do. Tell me what has you so terrified."

Dean was shifting his body again, nervous.., anxious…about to reveal the secret. His eyes looked so haunted, scared, but also steely and determined. _What the hell! I'm just so tired of this hanging over my head, tired of the waiting._

"Killing that deer, disappointing you when you were six, hell, that's only the beginning. You don't know half the stuff I've done out there on the hunt. You have no idea the things I've killed. What I've had to do to keep going, what I've lost along the way. All these years, I did my damnedest to protect you from the truth, to give you a safe world to live in and you have no idea the cost. The truth is, you have no idea what I'm capable of."

"Whatever you did, whatever you killed, I know you did your best. Dean, you don't have to be perfect, you're human, that's what it means to be human. So you made some mistakes, who hasn't? It doesn't make you a bad person; it doesn't mean you don't deserve my love and respect." Sam shuddered from the urgency of his words, his response heartfelt and real, his next comment the truth he only wished his brother could believe. "I could never look down on you. _Never._"

"Those are nice words, Sam, but you don't know." Dean's voice was again fracturing, breaking up from the strain. "This job, this life, it does stuff to you and all I've ever wanted was to not disappoint you."

"Well, then I guess you succeeded, 'cause, Dean, there is _nothing_ you could tell me that would make me disappointed in my big brother. That's just not happening, so you better get used to the idea, 'cause like it or not, there is no way I would _ever _turn away from you. You are stuck with me, dude."

Dean stared at his brother, still buried deep in that hole with his fears, those hollow feelings; still terrified that their closeness, the bond they shared could disappear in an instant if Sam ever stopped seeing his fearless, bold, protector big brother and saw the fragile, fucked-up excuse for a human being Dean Winchester really was. Knowing it would all be over if Sam ever faced all the sordid things he'd done in his life.

_Time to put the mask back on and hope all my fears are dead wrong, that maybe I can count on him to stand by me regardless. Maybe I'll just have to pretend I believe. Maybe if I pretend hard enough, it will come true._

All righty, then. His smirk reappeared along with his cocky attitude. "Oh, God, now you're threatening me."

"Damn straight."

The brothers shared a smile, tentative, but real. Sam knew he had just put a chink in his brother's protective wall. He hadn't yet succeeded in knocking it down, but it was a start. Now that he knew what Dean's fears were, he could keep reassuring him. With time he knew the wall just had to collapse, and he would be there to witness it. _Hell, if the Berlin Wall can come down, then I guess the Winchester Wall can't last forever._

The quiet, shared moment between them was soon interrupted by the sounds of an argument. They continued across the parking lot towards the sounds and Dean again paused by the deer strapped to the Caddy. This time he wasn't distracted by the deer, but from the altercation arising from the deer. Two PETA supporters had discovered the deer and were arguing with the owner of the caddy. Two sides of a volatile issue were screaming out their beliefs at ten o'clock at night in a backwater town that's biggest prior controversy was whether the stores should stay open later on the weekend.

The hunter was a large, brute of a man, looking like he'd failed the eighth grade and gone on to an illustrious career as a gas station attendant. Brains were definitely lacking by the tone of the argument.

"Just shut the hell up."

"Sir, you need to consider the animal's rights here. We were not put on this earth to destroy the other animals. We need to live in harmony with them."

"Oh, hell, you commie liberals or something?"

"Sir, our political affiliation has nothing to do with this conversation," the woman replied.

Dean considered these were the most restrained and logical PETA protestors he had ever encountered. Hell, even Dad might not want to shoot them. Without a second thought, Dean leaped into the fray, "Look, folks, I doubt you're going to come to an understanding, so why don't you just call it a night?"

"Who the hell are you?" the man yelled.

"Us?" Dean comically raised his brow, his dimples flickering above a playful smirk. "We're John and Yoko, why don't we just give peace a chance? All right?"

"What the hell?"

"Look, you're never going to agree on this, so just give it up. Okay?"

"Son of a bitch!" And the brute took a swing at Dean. Dean ducked and the bruiser staggered before regaining his balance.

"Last chance, mister. Let it go," Dean reasoned, demonstrating considerable restraint.

"Or what?"

Dean hauled off and connected his right fist with the deer slayer's jaw. The man's head jerked back, but returned with a fierce snarl. He was taller, heavier and had more muscle than Dean, but Dean had fifteen years of pent-up pain and anger and this lucky bastard was the recipient of all that fury. This was no contest, this was a Winchester massacre.

Five minutes later, Dean was bloodied and bruised, but standing victoriously over the unconscious son of a bitch that dared face off against a Winchester. A royally pissed-off Winchester, no less.

"Or that!" And Dean smiled, the left side of his face barely able to subtly turn up in a smile. He turned his attention to the two PETA supporters then. "I guess that settles the debate. Ladies." He nodded and turned to walk away.

Sam smiled at the efficiency of his brother and the obvious joy he got out of laying out this hunter. "Nice job."

"Thanks. Stupid son of a bitch."

"Yeah, he should know better than to mess with a Winchester."

"Hah, he should know you're never gonna get a PETA protester to change their mind. Waste of effort. Gotta learn to just let it go."

"Good advice. You feel better?"

Dean looked at his brother then, knowing this conversation was hardly about a stupid deer hunter, at least not _this_ stupid deer hunter. He thought back to that other hunter, all those years before, still wishing he could lay him out on the ground, make him pay even more for hurting his little brother. He guessed maybe what happened all those years ago just had to be enough.

Dad had checked all the newspapers for any article on the incident and found nothing. Hospital records said it was just a flesh wound; the guy probably didn't even have a limp after it healed. As a kid, he just wanted to make him pay, wanted to hurt him for hurting Sammy. Dad had always said if you fire a gun, you shoot to kill.

Dean had disobeyed that directive. He _meant_ to hurt him, not kill him. Like he'd told Sam, he didn't have it in him back then to kill. He'd hit what he was aiming at. Still, he'd been lucky. Now he knew even a leg wound could be deadly. A major artery or an infection and the guy could have lost the leg or even died. It could have ended so very differently.

The dumb bastard was lucky; lucky he met up with Dean when he was still a child trying to be a man, before he had completely succeeded in burying his innocence. Now, it might have gone differently and that scared him. How could Sam understand what he was capable of, when he himself was still unsure? It scared him sometimes when he considered how far he would go to protect his family.

"Dean? You all right?"

"Never better."

And Sam almost believed it. He would have in the past, but now he knew one of Dean's many secrets. His brother had finally cracked open the door to his psyche and given him a glimpse of the life he lived as a child. A life Sam should have been aware of, but somehow was shielded from, or just lacked the insight to see, blinded by the image of his fearless protector.

Now that he knew, he hoped to reach his brother; to finally batter down that wall and connect with that scared child and rescue him. It was going to take time; after all, that wall wasn't built in a day. It had been constructed brick by brick, by every harsh word or hurtful event over the course of his brother's troubled life. Sam was in this for the long haul. However long it took, he would be there to help his brother heal from his childhood. Dean had taken care of him his entire life; maybe it was his turn now.

"Dean, remember when Dad used to let us drive the Impala out in the desert, when we were, what, just twelve or so? Good thing we were tall or we'da never reached the pedals."

"Yeah." And Dean smiled a warm, genuine smile, the memory touching on one of the good times in their lives, one of the times Sam had previously buried and forgotten. One of the times that maybe they needed to revisit more: a happy, fun time, a _fond _memory.

Dean was grinning wildly. "I remember when he told you to back it down that narrow dirt road and he better not hear any scrub trees scratching the paint on his baby. I can't believe he trusted you to do that. I'da thrashed you if you'd scratched up that car."

"Man, that made me nervous! Those bushes were right up next to the road. The car barely fit and I knew how much he loved that car."

"Never as much as you, Sammy." Dean again looked at Sam with moisture in his eyes, a chick-flick moment threatening to spill over into this trip down memory lane.

"Yeah, I know." And Sam grinned. He always knew Dad loved them; he just refused to acknowledge it above all the other crap. Now he realized Dean saw that first and the other stuff was always a distant second. Maybe he should try that perspective for once, focus on the good times. "Remember your first 180?"

Dean smiled his cocky grin, his entire face lighting up at the memory. "Good times."

Sam contentedly watched his brother, now so relaxed and happy, a totally different man than the one he'd just shared a major conversation with. "Good times," Sam agreed, and he smiled, because he knew he actually meant it.

The End

bjxmas December, 2006.

All standard disclaimers apply.

_Thank you for reading._

_Apologies for taking so long to post this final chapter, real life again standing in the way of the fun stuff. Stay tuned for a new story taking shape, a courtroom drama inspired by my recent research as a juror in a criminal trial. I think the Winchesters might be encountering a haunted courtroom…._

_Heartfelt thanks to those who take the time to leave reviews, for me or any other writer you happen to read and enjoy their stories. Each and every review I receive is treasured. Like most writers, I live with serious doubts, often times wondering why I spend so much time on these stories. _

_Coming from a musical background, I look at reviews as applause. I just saw __Cats__ on stage and just being in the audience and listening to the applause makes me envy the performers 'cause I know how great that feels to know your hard work is appreciated. I can't even imagine looking out at a sea of smiling faces thanking you for entertaining them. I certainly hope J & J know how much we appreciate their efforts._

_Until next time, take care, B.J._


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